


The Nature of My Game

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Narcotics, Organized Crime, Undercover Cops, alternative universe, detective jared padalecki, sergeant jensen ackles, undercover danneel harris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is a desk jockey in the Bureau of Organized Crime (B.O.C.), building a case on mob boss James Patrick Stuart with the help of undercover officer Danneel Harris, a surveillance team in the field, and a few confidential informants. Jared is the narcotics officer that impedes the operation with an interest in one of Stuart's new associates and worms his way under Jensen's skin after what could've been just a one-night stand.</p>
<p>With a host of police officers on Stuart's payroll, Jensen's doing his best to keep B.O.C.'s operation under wraps to see it through to the very end. A possibly messy, violent end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [spn_reversebang]() as a pinch hit to [sweet-lyri's](http://sweet-lyri.livejournal.com) beautiful cops prompt that I admired for a long time before it was offered for a pinch hit. I couldn't NOT claim it when I had the chance. 
> 
> Huge thanks to the few randoms who sifted through the file at various points and/or brainstormed with me ([tebtosca](http://tebtosca.livejournal.com), [cleflink](http://cleflink.livejournal.com), and [rozearkana](http://rozearkana.livejournal.com), and then MAJOR THANKS to [zubeneschamali](http://zubeneschamli.livejournal.com) for the late-night beta.

It was the middle of the night when Richard Speight decided it was time to leave. His home was dark and quiet, daughter and son asleep in their beds and his wife still lightly snoring in their master bedroom. He moved around the house with soft steps and swift hands to pack bags and stack them by the front door. He grabbed his jacket then moved through the brisk midnight hours to stuff the luggage into the hatchback of his used Forester.

His breathing quickened when headlights flashed down his street, strobes clearing a path down the residential way. He feared he’d be seen, found to be on the run, so he quickly shut the back of the vehicle then shuffled around the side of it so the coming car wouldn’t see him. Shutting his eyes, he silently counted to ten as the car kept on moving right past him, maintaining the same speed all down the road until it turned the corner and was out of sight for anyone in the area.

Richard slowly rose from his crouch, carefully looked all around his neighborhood, and when he was satisfied to be alone again, he hurried to get the last of the bags in the car. When he turned back to his house, he stuttered to a quick stop then stepped back at the sight of James Patrick Stuart standing on his front lawn.

For the last ten years, Richard had run his dry cleaners and been a perfect image of a happily married man with two kids and a warm home. The image was what the neighbors all saw at weekend barbeques and soccer games, but in the darker hours of the night, he answered to the man in front of him.

“Hello, Richie,” Stuart said calmly, almost happily.

“Mr. Stuart,” Richard mumbled with a nod.

“Are you and the Missus taking the kiddos on vacation?”

He was … or at least, that’s what he would tell his family when he was planning to wake them in the coming minutes.

“Maybe to Walt Disney World?” Stuart guessed. “See a little bit of Universal Studios? Surely could be fun, but you’ll end up sweating like a pig in that heat.”

Richard’s heart beat impossibly fast and his hands shook in fear. “No, no,” he insisted, “just a family emergency.”

“Oh? Is it your mother’s heart again? We can send someone to look in on her.”

“Don’t you dare!” he shouted, nostrils flaring and hands fisting tight at his sides. Warm tears built in his eyes as the thought of one of Stuart’s men stepping foot inside his childhood home, of them approaching his mother and laying even a finger on her.

Stuart stayed in his spot and only moved to slip his hands into his pants’ pockets, tipping his head to the side as he observed Richard.

And Richard shook in place as he regretted every single thing he’d ever done since Pellegrino, Stuart’s right-hand man, stepped foot into the cleaners. When Pellegrino had promised protection in what used to be a rough neighborhood, where Richard’s father had run the business since the 1970s, where other businesses fought to stay afloat and safe as the years passed.

Stuart shrugged. “Then what’s the hurry, Richie?”

When that protection came with an ever-growing price, and eventually turned into a service for Richard to launder more than clothes – money and drugs that gathered an entirely different clientele but kept his bank account padded and his family well fed.

Then he smiled. “What’s so important you have to run off at,” he checked his bold, silver watch, “two o’clock on a Wednesday morning?”

When those services became too much, and Richard pocketed all the cash in the store and called in an anonymous tip to the organized crime unit, telling them everything about the real business going on at Speight’s Cleaners.

“Richie, are you running away from me?”

When Richard came home and decided they could start a new life on the other coast or stay here and die at the hands of the city’s most powerful crime boss: James Patrick Stuart.

“Did I do something wrong?” After a moment, Stuart tsked. “No, that’s right. It wasn’t me. It was _you_. You who ratted your own store out and stole _my_ money.” Stuart finally moved, coming closer with slow, methodical steps. “You know what I hate, Richie? I hate rats. And I hate thieves. And I hate cowards who run in the middle of the night after they rat and steal.”

Richard slunk down before the imposing stance of Stuart, cowering over him.

Stuart then leaned in close and whispered, “Especially when it’s ratting on and stealing from _me_.”

It took a few seconds to notice the second man coming from the side, to see the gun rise in the air, and to feel the muzzle against his forehead. But it didn't matter after the gun went off and the bullet ended the whole charade. 

   
 _Knee deep in paperwork is no way to get through life, son._

That’s what Jensen’s first Commanding Officer told him when they stopped a seventy-something grandma blowing past a stop sign out on March Avenue. Jensen believed the guy, too, because Steven Williams was old and hardened, and may have spent a few too many decades in vice, but the son of a bitch seemed to love it.

Bossing around the Patrol, nagging the ones who couldn’t keep their bar-pins straight or the duty belt nestled up high enough to maintain clean lines of the navy uniform. Jensen learned a lot from the man, spent his late teens and early twenties earning his trust, stockpiling treasures like _you can love your informants, but don’t love them into a hotel room._

A hundred ditties like that have been catalogued in Jensen’s brain for any such occasion the job calls for, but he’s never been able to escape the dreaded brown files that make him detail nearly every move.

He’s only four pages in, times and dates and details swirling together on the Confidential Informant he fed donuts and coffee to that morning. He should be further along, but his eyes are crossing over his own handwriting and he hasn’t yet put two and two together. 

This wasn’t what where he wanted to be at this point in his career: sitting behind a desk and reading files. He wanted to be out on the street, but it was the only condition where the brass would let him stay on the force after he’d defied orders a few too many times in the field. Now he was stuck in an office, spinning his wheels and trying to make sense of his informant’s news.

Murray had told him Stuart had a new line for drug sales in Buckingham. That there was a new crew making deliveries, but someone was aiming to stop it.

Jensen hasn’t heard a whisper on any of that. Doesn't have any knowledge or intel on another run of drug pushers trying to hold tight to any area that Stuart hasn’t already declared as his own.

Maybe Murray is lying. He is a street-level rat, after all, just looking for payday from police who are hungry for information.

When the phone rings, Jensen happily flaps the folder shut and picks up the receiver before the second ring can end.

“Sergeant Ackles, B.O.C.,” he states routinely then awaits something interesting on the other end.

“She’s gone.”

Instantly, he looks up and around the office. Half a dozen other officers are going about their business, moving around in their seats or to one another’s cubicles. “Since when?”

“Radio went out ten minutes ago. No warning.”

Jensen’s fingers clench around the receiver and he sits at the edge of his chair. “Where?”

“Out in Riverview.” There’s a rustle of movement on that end of the line, and the phone is passed from Whitfield over to Manns.

“It’s been twelve minutes,” Manns says quickly, “maybe too early to panic?”

Rolling his eyes, Jensen chuckles without humor. “And yet you called me?”

“Just keeping you informed.”

“Where’s the truck?”

“We’re just two blocks out from the meeting point.”

He searches his memory, sifting through random comments or messages from a throwaway phone that kept everyone’s position secure. “What meeting?”

“They’re hauling a pallet of G out to Buckingham.”

“Son of a bitch.”

There’s a short pause then an awkward chuckle. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I knew … but I didn’t know.”

“Wait … what?”

Jensen sighs and leans back in his chair. “Fucking Murray was right. I hate it when Murray’s right.”

Manns chuckles again, this time more in mocking. “At least he earned those fifty bucks.”

He waves off the thought and gets back to the issue at hand. “Keep your lines open and get me on the phone the second you get her back. I’m coming your way …”

Half an hour later, he’s out at the truck with Manns and Whitfield. The only update they have is a few seconds worth of video with a dark Volvo passing the truck and heading to the Warehouse District.

Jensen’s cell phone rings, and he can’t decide if the news is better or worse.

"She's been arrested."

Jensen pulls his phone away to stare at the display, tiny digital numbers he can’t recognize beyond something in the center of the city.

Then they fall into place and he recognizes that this call is little more than a courtesy. One Police Place didn't call many people below Captain.

Jensen tucks the cell closer to his ear. As if this would help erase the whole situation. "What happened?"

“Someone from the two-seven broke in and nabbed her.”

It wasn’t wholly unexpected, but his mood sours at the predicament. Especially coming from someone as high up as Jeffrey Dean Morgan, a Deputy Commissioner with the sharply-ironed angles of his uniform and the barrage of bars and stars across his shirt.

“You might want to grab her before they find out what she is.”

He jumps out of the back of the faux-heating truck. “I’m on my way.” He stumbles to a stop just before his car, biting down on his tongue for a second. “And don’t let them take her past the cages.”

“This is your girl.”

“You can’t make a call to stall things?”

“This is as far as I get involved. Now go get your package.”

And he does, with little instruction to Manns beyond packing it up and registering any tapes they were able to get. His drive back into town and far over to the eastern part towards the two-seven is made in a tense silence. He doesn’t bother with the radio, doesn’t listen to anything aside from his own voice going over everything.

Jensen didn't want to be a babysitter any more than she wanted one. Danneel was a big girl, but he was still responsible for every move she made, even when they didn’t talk as often as he would like.

The front desk at the two-seven makes him flash his badge, forces a lie out when he explains his presence as directly related to a prostitution ring out in the one-nine. He claims Miss Graul is one of his witnesses and is needed back in his custody for an early-morning court appearance. The lie gets him up to narcotics, and Jensen continues to put on the charade once there, even as he wonders how the hell this came about …

Sure, narcotics tracking down a load of meth is exactly what it should be doing, but Jensen was promised space when it came to Stuart.

A female detective in street clothes approaches Jensen once he’s entered the area. She sizes him up, cocks her head, and she must be a sharp one because he gets the feeling she automatically reads him as one of them.

“What can we do you for, Sergeant?” she asks with her hands on her hips.

He opens his mouths, mentally retorts _am I that obvious?_ , then nods towards the back corner where he sees a few bars that make up the unit’s holding cell. “The front desk said to ask for Rhodes?”

“And you are?”

“Vice. The name’s Ross.”

She eyes him warily. “Ross? That a first name or a last?”

“A little of both,” he replies with a put-upon smile. “I’m here for Elta Graul.”

She gives him a short nod. “You’re in the right place, but that girl ain’t going anywhere until after her arraignment.”

“Actually, she is, because she’s a witness set for court in the morning.”

“That’s funny,” Rhodes replies with a smirk. “Because she’s been telling my partner that she’s nothing more than Suzie Homemaker.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Jensen mumbles then clears his mouth. “Can I talk to her?”

She lifts one sharp eyebrow and Jensen does the same, though less in judgment and more in confusion, and maybe a little bit of hope that she lets him. “I’m sure you won’t mind if my partner and I join you?”

Jensen motions forward. “Be my guest.”

Rhodes leads him back to the cage, where a tall—extremely tall—man is leaning against the bars and obviously growing more and more wearied over the tale being spun before him.

“I’m telling you,” Danneel—playing her undercover role as a Southern tart out of Louisiana, complete with a syrupy drawl—says as she rests against the other side of the cell so she’s oh-so-close to the officer. “I haven’t done a single thing wrong here. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I’m sure, sweetheart,” the detective returns with an unamused smirk.

“If you just let me have my one phone call, we can get this all straightened out.” She tilts her head to the side, long, wavy, auburn hair sliding off her bare shoulder and putting the low cut of her dress on display. “Then you and I can talk other business.”

Detective Rhodes raises her eyebrow again and slants a sharp look in Jensen’s direction. “You sure this is your star witness?”

“You should see the rest of the case,” he jokes, but it falls flat, especially when the male detective—presumably, Rhodes’ partner—turns to them with a sharp look.

“What’s this?” he asks while critiquing Jensen, head to toe and back up again.

Jensen can’t lie that the search is one part irritating and a large part curious, because he also can’t pretend that this guy isn’t unnaturally attractive with the strong lines of his shoulders covered in a soft sweater and the length of his legs in dark jeans. Jensen’s been on the force for 17 years, and it isn’t often he’s comes across and officer with a face that doesn’t look like it was beaten in from long hours on the job.

“This is Sergeant Ross,” Rhodes introduces. “Claims he needs Graul for a court appearance in the morning.”

The man turns back to Danneel, puts on a fake pout, and grants her a pretty powerful set of puppy dog eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, I thought you had four kids to get back to out in the ‘burbs.”

“Look,” Jensen breaks in with the easiest smile he can offer under this performance, “I’m sure you guys got plenty of other folks to process. Let me get her out of your hair.”

Rhodes narrows her eyes. “ _Let you_. Oh, honey, I bet that pretty face and mouth gets you a whole lot of favors across the district, but not when we’ve got one of Olsson’s business partners in custody.”

Jensen’s eyes widen ever so slightly, all out of reflex. He tries to pull back his reaction and instead glares at Danneel—both in aggravation for what the situation really is and for what it should reflect to these two detectives from a detective who just wants to take a witness into his custody. He sighs and rolls his eyes at the detectives. “So, what? You wanna arraign her? Let one of Olsson’s hoods come and bail her out in the morning, make you all look like a joke for letting her out ROR?”

“Excuse me?” the male detective asks, forcing himself into Jensen’s personal space, glaring down with a stern brow that belies the charming smile and deep dimples he’d had when talking to Danneel—albeit mockingly. “What kind of vice _Muppet_ do you think you are??”

Even as he scoots a foot back, Jensen continues with the faked interest. “Hey, I’m just saying that if you wanna leave the DA hanging with a pair of empty cuffs—”

“Alright boys, put your sticks back in your pants,” Rhodes insists. She now stands between them, shooting a dark look at each, then pats her partner on the chest. “Padalecki, why don’t you get some transfer papers? And you—” Rhodes pokes her finger in the center of Jensen’s chest, makes him flinch back and touch his shirt to make sure she didn’t pierce through with how hard she got him, and stands right in front of him. “You can sit here and sign all the duplicates we need for chain of command if you’re that interested in a pro like her.”

Jensen doesn’t see her, but he hears Danneel huff with offense. He’s not up for paperwork, doesn’t need a trail explaining how he made this one go away, but sure, he’ll play their game for another few minutes. “Yeah, that’s cool. I’ll sign anything you need.”

“Here’s the first batch,” the guy—Padalecki, for which his name does nothing for him, though the derisive smile actually does _something_ to Jensen’s groin—says as he drops a stack of papers on the nearest table. “You may wanna grab a seat. Those gumshoes of yours could get a little soft.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Jensen forces out while pulling a chair over to the table. He pats his pockets as he slouches to sit, then looks up at Rhodes and Padalecki. “How about a pen, maybe some coffee?”

“Oh, sure, you want a fresh croissant, too?” Padalecki asks, but doesn’t bother waiting for an answer as he walks away.

Rhodes tosses a pen at him, nails Jensen in the neck, then turns back to her desk.

There’s no real offense here as he’s lost their attention and has a chance to look at Danneel without prying eyes. He flips his hand out with a _what the hell?_ kind of motion and look on his face.

She rolls her eyes in response, slips her hands through the bars, and rests her elbows on the horizontal bracket keeping the cell together. When she wiggles her fingers, he realizes she’s not cuffed, and it might not take much to get her out of here without any notice.

Jensen shuffles through the paperwork to the page where the person of interest is required to sign off in agreement that he or she is now in his custody.

“Hey, so, uh,” Jensen says aloud, gathering Padalecki’s stubborn attention from where the guy is now across the room at his desk.

“Yeah,” he replies shortly.

“There’re a few parts where I need her John Hancock.”

Padalecki sighs, rises to his full height, stretches a bit taller as he walks, and surprisingly unlocks the cage without further argument.

Jensen flashes his most charming smile at Padalecki once Danneel has stepped out from behind the bars. “Thanks. And maybe that coffee, too?”

“You got it, princess.”

He doesn’t argue the slight, because Padalecki is then around the corner to fetch a drink, Rhodes still has her back to the rest of the room, and Jensen now has Danneel’s elbow in his tight grip as he leads them out of the unit.

They remain silent until they’re in the elevator alone, riding down three floors to the lobby. “You’re a fucking moron,” he grits out between his clenched teeth.

“And you’re cranky,” she shoots back, wrenching her arm out of his grip. “What’s that all about?”

“Gee, I dunno … my undercover goes missing, gets _arrested_ , and then I have deal with the Mod Squad to get you out of there.”

Danneel stands straight, even while barefoot with her heels likely in evidence. “You could’ve let me stay.”

“Yeah, sure,” he snorts. “Let you spend some time in GenPop while the Narcs go after Olsson.” He shifts towards her and quickly changes the subject. “What the hell was he doing there anyway?”

“Hell if I know? Stuart asked Wade to take part of the shipment out to Buckingham. He called it a fresh investment.”

“And then?”

Danneel sighs. “And then Wade ran a freaking red light and a patroller got us with a moving violation and the package in the trunk.”

“That fucking guy …”

“Yeah, and now narcotics is onto him … which screws us over.”

“Not yet. Maybe those two upstairs won’t look too far into it.”

“You really think so?” she asks with a cynical quirk of her mouth.

“Well, they didn’t bother keeping an eye on us …”

Jensen holds his breath as the elevator doors slide open, hopeful there won’t be more narcotics officers standing before them. There aren’t, and Jensen smoothly walks through the lobby of the police station with Danneel sauntering beside him. “Cut that out,” he mumbles from the side of his mouth, “you’re drawing attention.”

“My mama always said ‘a proud hen never backs down’.”

He smiles a little, bites into the corner of his mouth to avoid showing off in front of the few patrolmen watching them leave. He doesn’t need to be too proud, but she has a point; they escaped this little mess.

For now.

  


There’s a flurry of noise all around Jensen as he grabs the morning newspaper and drops a few bills on the counter of the corner street shop. City noise with horns and whistles and people on cell phones doesn’t disrupt his morning routine, especially when he’s lining up his talking points for a meeting with the ADA covering his case in twenty.

“Hey, Ross!”

The voice is insistent, loud, calling out again, and Jensen subtly looks around. Nothing, and no one, grabs his attention any further so he keeps walking until the voice is now beside him.

“I don’t know why I’m shocked.”

Jensen glances to his left and then up and up to the tight face of Detective Padalecki. “Jesus!” Jensen gripes as he flinches a few feet away. “Warn a guy before you just slide up on him.”

Padalecki seems a bit smug at this point, but Jensen won’t acknowledge it. He’s not up for acknowledging this exchange at all, because it can’t be good that the guy is out of his district and trailing Jensen.

They continue walking, Padalecki’s long legs keeping him perfectly in step with Jensen’s, which is further irritating. “A little out of your area,” Jensen jokes, “aren’t you, detective?”

“Yeah, but you know, I gotta go where my CIs are.” He stops Jensen before they can cross the next street with his palm firm and warm at the center of Jensen’s chest. “Funny thing about that … I was just across the street, having a lovely conversation with my informant, when suddenly he’s spooked … and I’m thinking, maybe his old boss is hanging around the area again, but then I remember, no, I took that trash out last year and he’s serving five to ten for distributing to minors.”

Jensen removes Padalecki’s hand, takes his time to stare at him, and then shrugs. “And what’s that got to do with me?”

“Well, apparently my CI wants to run back into hiding because of you.”

“What?” Jensen laughs, turning back towards the crosswalk. “That’s absurd.”

“That’s what I thought.” Padalecki stops Jensen again, this time poking Jensen near the collarbone. “Until he told me that _you_ have him on the payroll, too.”

Jensen shakes Padalecki off and smoothly smiles. “I have no clue what or who you’re talking about, but it sounds like your CI ain’t holding up his end of the bargain and is trying to skirt away from helping you out.”

“So, I wasted a hundred bucks to find out your name isn’t Ross and that you’re not really in Vice?”

The guy seems a bit smug, yet still annoyed with Jensen’s refusal to answer.

“Why don’t you tell me who you really are?”

Jensen chuckles, tries to move away again, yet is stopped with two hundred pounds of angry detective now standing toe-to-toe.

“And why don’t you tell me how it is that you got my detainee out of my building without so much as a peep on anyone’s radar?”

Now, Jensen’s washed of all humor and stares right into Padalecki’s eyes, doing his best to not appear rattled. He isn’t, really, but it’s no time to start.

“Or how I got stuck with an empty pair of handcuffs when Olsson jumped bail. Just like you said I would.”

“Some things … you learn on the job,” Jensen offers. “Gotta cut your teeth on something, right?” When the narc is offended and stuck in place, Jensen quickly moves around him and swiftly across the street. Of course, it only takes twenty seconds for the guy to catch back up with him.

“Murray says you’re running with the Bureau of Organized Crime."

_Murray, that fucking rat,_ Jensen rants to himself, then muses that a CI is a rat from the start, always will be one.

“What does organized crime want with Graul and Olsson?”

“What do _you_ want with them?”

“To get them behind bars.”

They’re now at the corner facing the County Building, and Jensen knows he can’t have Padalecki following him there, especially not to the people he’s meeting with. Part of the promises made with Morgan included the widest net of secrecy over this whole matter, _especially_ where Danneel was concerned.

Jensen shrugs with a _whatever_ kind of notion in him. “Well, then you keep on living the dream and run down Olsson.”

“And what about Graul?”

“Graul’s my business,” he replies firmly, protective veneer rising to the occasion. They’ve been buddies since training and he's her only connection outside of Stuart’s organization. He’s not about to let anyone else in on that secret.

Padalecki nods and scowls. “I always heard B.O.C. liked to keep a piece on the side.”

Jensen narrows his eyes then is distracted by his cell ringing. The Caller ID makes him curse. _ADA Sterling Brown_. He’s late for his meeting and that won’t help his argument to get a warrant for Olsson now that the dealer's tied to Stuart’s drug trafficking … which lights a bulb in Jensen’s head and he smiles at Padalecki.

“How about this …. You’re looking for some help on Olsson—”

Padalecki grunts. “I wouldn’t call it _help_ …”

“And you’re letting me get away with stealing your arrest—”

“I’m not really letting you anythi—”

“So we settle things with a little mutual back scratching.” Jensen spreads his hands out with ease and smiles. “I’ll tell you what I know about Graul and you can give me insight into Olsson.”

Padalecki seems to think on it, but of course doesn’t bite immediately. “Why would I do that?”

“To get a leg up on the guy.”

“And why would _you_ do that?”

“Just helping out a coworker.” He grins once again, feeling a bit giddy and childlike for coming up with this plan so suddenly. He goes as far as good-naturedly patting the back of his hand on Padalecki’s chest. “The beers are on me.”

It’s more than obvious that the guy is suspicious, but he buys it, trades numbers, and watches Jensen head off to the County Building. Jensen boldly waves back at Padalecki once there are a full four lanes of asphalt between them, and happily marches into the building.

Up on the fifteenth floor, Jensen joins a tense conference room with ADA Brown, Jensen’s boss—Lieutenant Omundson—and, surprisingly, Deputy Commissioner Morgan.

“Ackles, so glad you could bother to join us,” Morgan declares in a booming voice.

“Sorry, sir, just had a bit of a development on the case.”

“And what is that?” Brown asks in his typical bored, tired, and skeptical nature. He adjusts the lapel on his high-priced, pinstriped suit jacket and rolls his head over to glower at Jensen. “Got another undercover arrested?”

“Uh, no, not that,” Jensen stammers out while lowering himself into a chair at the far end of the room, being careful to keep enough space between them so no one can wring his neck out, like they all appear to wish they could do. “But relatedly … the detective that’s tracking Olsson has agreed to share his case.”

“Ty Olsson?” his boss asks.

“Yeah, that’s who D and Wade were meeting up with.”

“Before or after Wade got them arrested?” Brown smarts off.

Jensen shrugs, unhappy with the state of that situation as well. “He’s not the brightest bulb.”

“Why didn’t we try to get Wade on our side as well?” Morgan asks. “We could’ve avoided the arrest entirely.”

“See my prior statement,” Jensen says with a flippant move of his hand. “But apparently Olsson is now getting into the drug trade with Stuart. Olsson’s who they were meeting, but he's now out on bail, probably about to skip any charges with a big-time lawyer on staff.”

“Did you know about this beforehand?”

Jensen opens his mouth to answer, then tries to build a better one than _kinda_. “Well—”

“ _Well_ isn’t a good start,” Morgan grumbles.

“A CI gave us a lead,” he defends quickly. “But I wasn’t quite there by the time it all went down. Manns and Whitfield were trailing her, but she cut and dumped the wire before the patrol officer could get to it.” Jensen sits forward, getting some fire in him to fight for running on this new track. “The narcotics guy wants to figure out what the hell me and D have to do with this, and how I got her out of there. He’s thirsty and probably willing to give up a lot of stories. We already have plans for tomorrow to sit down.”

“And what are you giving up?” Lt. Omundson asks slowly.

“Nothing more than Graul’s background. I’m not giving him anything that can’t be heard on the streets, but it’ll be new to him.”

All three share a silent look then turn back to Jensen. Brown’s the first to speak: “Who’s the guy?”

“Padalecki.” There’s another quick glance between them and Jensen feels the tension rise up towards the ceiling. “What? Is there something I should know about this guy?”

“Probably everything,” Brown says. “Because I’ve never heard of him, myself.”

“That might not be bad.”

“Might not be good. If he’s not on anyone’s radar, why’s he suddenly up for chatting with you?”

Jensen leans back and taps the table. “Maybe it’s my sparkling personality.”

Morgan clears his throat and the noise echoes around the room, burrowing into Jensen’s hearing like a low drum that unsettles his bones. The man rises, runs a hand down the decorated front of his uniform, and then tucks his hat into the crook of his elbow. “We’ve got enough holes in the department, not to mention B.O.C., specifically. I’m not excited about another officer being pulled into this effort.”

Straightening in his chair, Jensen grows serious to match the Deputy Commissioner’s tone. The man’s not wrong; none of them are. This undercover operation was approved to worm their way into Stuart’s organization without a swarm of insects crawling all over it and disrupting a chance to bring down the county’s biggest boss. Jensen’s been doing his best to sidestep any possible mole, rat, or cockroach milling around the department.

“Of course not, sir,” Jensen says gravely. “Neither am I. But I’m not about to turn away a shot to peek into a new connection. At the very least, we draw another line to Stuart. Not to mention get Narcotics off D’s tail.”

Morgan clears his throat again, nodding at the room. “You all figure it out and Timmy can brief me on it later. Good day.”

Jensen makes sure he’s out of Morgan’s line of sight before mouthing _Timmy_ at Brown, who narrows his eyes yet seems a little bit amused by the situation.

“You hear me?” Morgan demands and they all return with _yes, sir!_

Once the door is closed with Morgan on the other side, there’s a collective sigh, and Jensen eyes his boss. “So, we’re good on this?”

“Don’t screw this up,” Omundson says as he stands, pointing a firm finger in Jensen’s direction.

Jensen clears his throat and nods. “No intention to, sir.”

“What’s the story on Speight?”

In his mind, all the facts line up and he’s spitting them out rapid fire. “Cause of death is a bullet to the head. Another four bullets to the chest didn’t help matters. Coroner puts it at approximately three in the morning. No one woke up, not even his wife or his two kids. They were all asleep in the house just twenty yards away, so it must’ve been a silencer. His car was shaken up, but it doesn’t look like anything was taken.”

“So they’re faking a robbery?” Brown asks.

“I can only assume at this point,” Jensen admits, disappointed in that fact. “Danneel’s heard some chatter regarding Speight’s place, but nothing concrete.”

"Who's covering the case?"

"Homicide in the ninth precinct. Rosenbaum."

“And what do they say about Stuart’s alibi?” Omundson questions, though he’s rolling his eyes so it appears he doesn’t hold much water in there being a chance to go after the criminal.

Jensen sighs and shakes his head. “Says he was home asleep with his wife.” Before anyone can ask more questions, Jensen rattles off, “His wife confirms it without question. Daughter says he was up early the next morning to make them all breakfast. And before you ask, it was well after five that either of them saw him, so it’s not a safe alibi, but it’s not one we can crack yet.” After a quick breath, he tacks on, “I did get a ledger from Speight at our last meeting, so I’m hoping to find something in there.”

“You haven’t looked at it yet?” Brown sighs.

“Excuse me?” Jensen laughs. “What do you think I am? Lazy? Of course I have, but nothing’s jumped out at me yet. It’s like all the notes are too obvious when I’m _trying_ to tie it to Stuart.”

“Maybe Harris could read something into it?” Omundson offers, and Jensen nods, thinking it’s not a terrible idea at all.

“Next time I see her, I’ll ask.”

“Good.” Omundson moves to the door then makes a point to stop in place and slowly turn back to the room. “And Ackles? Don’t screw this up.”

His Lieutenant leaves Jensen alone with the ADA, and Jensen huffs and shakes his head. “Like I need a reminder.”

“Maybe you do,” Brown points out. “About a few things, actually.”

Now Jensen itches to leave. He’s not ready to take on another lecture about procedures and confidentiality. Jensen’s spent 18 years on the force; he’s not a rookie on his first detail.

“So, while we’re at it,” Brown says, rocking back in his office chair, “I might as well bitch at you for showing up late.”

Jensen huffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh, give me a break, Sterl.”

“I hate Sterl,” he says quickly.

“And I hate being smacked on the knuckles for tardiness.”

Brown smirks and settles back in a comfortable recline. “You really think you can get something out of this Pada-whatever guy?”

“We got off on the wrong foot, but I think it’s possible.”

“So, you’re up for betting on it?”

“That I get laid?” Jensen jokes. “Maybe.”

Brown rolls his eyes then taps at the table. “So what’s the deal with the phones at Stuart’s auto shop?”

Jensen shakes his head in frustration. “They’ve been clean. A few calls with a lot of talking, but we can’t figure out even half the code they’re using now. They refer to a Mr. Flowers all the time, cleaning up messes and sweeping things under the rug.”

“You think a clean-up crew for the murders?”

“They haven’t really been cleaning up much lately. Look at Speight,” Jensen points out. “But maybe they’re dropping more bodies than we’re picking up.”

“And the cells of his employees?”

“Gone.” He inhales a sharp breath and gives Brown a twisted smile. “I watched one toss it in the garbage then buy a track phone from the little shop on the corner.”

Now Brown laughs. “They’ve got you tagged.”

“Brazen little shits,” he grumbles.

“Well, we need something. The video helping with anything?”

“Whitfield reports plenty of meetings. A lot of the big guys show up to talk to him. Roché, Lehne, Richings. But without audio …”

“What about lip reading?”

Jensen scoffs and lightly smacks his hands on the table. “They conveniently turn away from the street when they chat.”

“So,” Brown draws out, “we finally found a criminal smarter than you.”

“Not yet,” Jensen replies firmly. “I’ll get my man sooner or later.”

Jensen had thought he had everything in line to get the information he needed. Padalecki showed up early, grabbed them a table at a quiet dive bar on the west side of town, and got his questions out before they even had bottles in hand. Still, Jensen had easily steered the conversation in other directions, finding out Padalecki was an implant from Iowa, born and bred on corn but always looking for big city living. He jumped around a few metropolitan police forces until finally settling here in narcotics and, just like it had appeared early on, he wasn’t up for messing around when it came to his case.

Jensen also finds out that Olsson had come up through childhood with Mark Sheppard, who got off from serving 25 to life for homicide with the sudden loss of an eye witness. All other circumstantial evidence led to an involuntary manslaughter and ten years that were cut short thanks to good behavior, yet Sheppard’s seemed to have dropped off the radar since then.

After five years of silence, Olsson was picking up the reins and reviving the business. Padalecki had no proof of the connections, but he did have the sign-in logs at the maximum security prison Sheppard had spent six years in, and Olsson was a frequent visitor. Not much of it meant anything to Jensen—at least, not anything he couldn’t find for himself—but at least he was now aware of how far into Olsson’s history Jared was digging.

“And what about Elta Graul?” he asks while Jensen finishes off his third beer. Padalecki's first remains on the table with at least an inch left in the bottle.

“What about her?”

“How are you tied to her?”

Jensen chuckles, leans back in the booth with his arm over the back of the seat. He shrugs and watches how Padalecki bristles at the loose attitude. “I already told you … we had a bust in the one-three, she was one of a dozen girls in a high-class brothel, and now here we are. You and me.”

Padalecki keeps Jensen’s gaze, but he’s unimpressed. “And I already told you that Murray gave you up as B.O.C. So, what do they want with her?”

Of course, Jensen had hoped that tidbit had left Padalecki’s radar, but here he is staring down the one million dollar question. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night, Sergeant.”

Jensen spins his empty bottle from the neck, eyes Padalecki from the corner of his eye. “Do you really, Detective Padalecki?”

He’d meant it more as a distraction, yet the way Padalecki’s cheeks pink up and his eyes slant away tells Jensen something else entirely. And he’s up for following the game, yet also knows it could create more harm than good, especially where Danneel’s undercover status stands.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Jensen finds that he perhaps means that, harnessing the will to keep Danneel protected every second of the day.

“Jared.”

He watches Padalecki’s harsh stare settle into something defeated yet open. “What?”

“My name’s Jared. If you’re gonna bother flirting with me, you might as well use my first name.”

“Okay,” Jensen replies slowly, weighing the situation and wondering where exactly it’s heading. “Jared.”

“And you are?”

He thinks on how to respond and settles on leaning on the table, arms crossed, and aiming a soft, flirty smile in Jared’s direction. “Delighted to meet you.”

He soon finds he _is_ delighted to get to know Jared, because once the narc loosens up and is steered off the discussion of Danneel’s undercover assignment, their conversation aligns, firing on all cylinders, and Jensen easily forgets that they’ve met under the circumstances they did. So much so that when it’s nearing midnight and Jared says he should head out, Jensen offers to walk out with him. And to the parking lot, to Jared’s car, and up against Jared’s body when they’re standing a bit too close and Jared just goes for it.

Jared’s got Jensen tugged up close, mouth opening into Jensen’s, hand tight at the back of Jensen’s neck, and Jensen finds himself incapable of stopping it. Nor does he want to.

The kiss is deep and frantic, nearly knocking Jensen out at the knees and tearing the air out of his chest. When Jared pulls back and they struggle for air, Jensen swears he’s stuck underwater, all sounds warped in his ears and his limbs floating.

“Holy fuck,” Jensen mumbles, wiping his mouth and covering it as he stares up at Jared’s intense stare.

“So, now that that’s out of the way … you wanna tell me why you took Graul?”

It’s a punch to the gut and Jensen staggers back a few steps. “And here I thought we were getting along.”

With a big hand wrapped around Jensen’s belt, Jared hauls him back in, diving down to start up another round of manic kissing. Jensen’s hands find their way up Jared’s neck, into his hair. Jared’s hands keep Jensen right in place while his tongue plunged deep into Jensen’s mouth, sliding all slick and fast, twirling around Jensen’s and making him dizzy-headed all over again.

Then it stops, just as suddenly as the last time, and Jared huffs out, “What does Graul have to do with Olsson?”

When Jensen can stand back on two feet and see Jared’s face, he puts a hand up between them and chuckles to himself. “Before I start calling myself a victim, I feel like this is quite the run of mixed signals. Do you wanna fuck me or interrogate me?” Jared now appears just as lust-blown as Jensen feels, with his pupils gone wide, hair a mess, and lips all pink and bitten. “Or both?”

Jensen licks his lower lip as he waits for answer. Jared’s salty flavor is all over his mouth, and he feels his fingers tingle at the thought of what else Jared tastes like.

Apparently the quick move of Jensen’s mouth is enough to spur Jared back into action. He grabs Jensen again, turns them, and rests against Jensen against the department-issue Explorer Jared was supposed to have left in a long time ago.

Now Jensen can feel Jared’s dick in his pants, at least half-cocked and pressing into Jensen’s hip. He figures Jared can feel much the same in a moment’s time because the thought of them fucking around right here, right now, with so little known between them is firing Jensen up.

Somehow, something else comes into view. “This is a terrible idea,” Jensen mutters as Jared’s mouth hovers over his own, heavy breaths exchanged without them moving another inch.

“I thought maybe Graul was some girl you kept on the side,” Jared whispers, “someone you liked to screw in between grand juries, and that you’d look the other way every time she was arrested.”

“Maybe she is,” Jensen mumbles back.

Jared rocks forward, making Jensen keen and shut his eyes because all he wants is to grab hold of Jared’s ass to rub right off on him until they both come like a couple of messy juveniles on their first date. “But maybe she’s not really your type?”

Jensen chuckles a little, tries to back off and is reminded he’s stuck against the passenger-side door of Jared’s vehicle. “Look, we can’t really mix business and pleasure here …”

“You’re right,” Jared murmurs and slides a fraction back. They’re now staring at one another, and there’s nothing readable in Jared’s eyes, which are dark and wide, and seem to swallow Jensen whole. “Do you have a preference here?”

Jensen thinks on it and even when he has his answer near immediately, he knows he has to carefully craft his response. “We’re two good-looking guys, who are obviously a bit interested,” he sneaks in with a quick look down towards their waists, still pressed together. Jared slips forward enough to make Jensen change his statement. “Okay, _a lot_ interested.” Then he sobers as well as he can under the fog of lust and want. "But I can’t give you the answers you want with Graul. So, if you’re trying to sneak in a side door, distracting me with what is apparently a really impressive dick and a great mouth, it’s not gonna work.”

The muscles in Jared’s throat work through a harsh swallow, and his eyes drift a bit south, settling somewhere around Jensen’s chest. It’s obvious Jared is now thinking through the moment and trying to plan his next move.

With careful hands, Jensen attempts to wedge some space between them, back Jared up enough that Jensen can slide out from against the car. Jared holds his spot, though, and looks Jensen in the eyes. “You really screwed up my case with your stunt.”

His chest tightens and he licks his lips, looking away with a bit of regret for ruining another detective’s work. “It wasn’t personal.”

“How could it be? We hardly know each other.”

To ease off the seriousness, Jensen smirks and lifts an eyebrow. “Well, we know a bit more about one another now.” When Jared snorts, Jensen tries, “And it’s not like it was bad, or anything.”

“So, what? After a terrible first impression, I’m your bud?”

There’s something honest and heartfelt in Jared, even with his bitterness leaking through, and Jensen finds himself fondly smiling at the guy. “The second impression definitely improved the situation.”

It’s quiet for a few moments then Jensen winks, Jared purses his lip in a hidden smile, and they’re back to kissing. Not nearly as rough as before, they take their time, as if mapping out new routes with their lips, tongues, and hands. Jensen finally lets his hands trail south, running his over Jared’s tight ass and groping, pulling, kneading. Jared wraps his arms around Jensen’s back as he presses the entire length of his body over Jensen, until he must lose all patience. Jared slides a hand down to the SUV’s door handle, pulls them away from the vehicle, yanks the door open, then ushers them into the back bench seat.

There is hardly room for them, but Jensen isn’t complaining when he’s crushed beneath Jared’s body with his pants opening and Jared’s hand slipping inside. They huff and pant as they try to make it work inside the cramped space, and Jensen reaches does to cup Jared through his jeans, all while Jared gets Jensen’s dick out and strokes it with that giant, warm hand of his.

Jensen tries to move around to get a better angle down to Jared’s pants, or even up to kiss him, and they bump heads and arms and knees the whole time. Jensen kicks the inside of the window with his legs stretching wide to finally let Jared rest between them so their dicks are aligned in Jared’s hand.

He feels like he’s back in college when he first found his sexuality, experimenting in cars and closets, dastardly hiding from anyone who could ever question why he’d suddenly found himself attracted to boys. It’s not as shameful as back then, but it’s far more exhilarating to be crushed together with Jared, a colleague of sorts, and a man more beautiful than any Jensen’s seen in a long time. He’s almost giddy when Jared finds the right rhythm and grip to stroke them together, pins and needles pricking all along Jensen’s legs and blood rushing through his system.

Jared whimpers and groans, then drops closer, smashing his mouth against Jensen’s with his tongue reaching far into Jensen’s mouth. Jensen grabs hold of Jared’s face to direct the hard, messy kiss, and assuredly feels the same as Jared with the sudden onslaught of muscle pulses and euphoria slamming into them. Jared breaks first with his come spilling over Jensen’s bare lower abdomen and up to his shirt. The first feel of the wet warmth on Jensen’s skin tells him he’s not going to last much longer, a hot rush of energy running through him just before he groans into Jared’s mouth and bites down on his tongue out of the reflexive muscle strain.

There isn’t much more said aside from Jared apologizing for Jensen’s shirt, and Jensen apologizing for letting it get this far.

And Jared’s small smile and shrugging, “It’s not like it was _bad_.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t,” Jensen replies. Then thinks, _Not at **all**_. “I’ve had my fair share of practice.”

Jared narrows his eyes yet comes around to smile. “Yeah, I bet you have.”


	2. Part Two

Amy Gumenick had spent most of her childhood circling the young pageant scene. Her sparkling blue eyes were only outshined by her sunny personality that charmed dozens upon dozens of judges on her way up to the statewide competition, which she deftly won.

She dated quarterbacks in high school and fraternity presidents in college. During post-grad, she wore a two-karat diamond on her ring finger and had plans to settle down with an MBA graduate with old money deep in his pockets. She had dreams of long yards and white fences, three kids running through a two-story Victorian house and a 7 AM kiss on the front stoop as a sendoff to her soon-to-be husband.

None of that came to be, however. Instead, she met Matt Cohen in a diner after a long night of margaritas with old sorority sisters.

His steely blue eyes caught hers immediately. Her attention was so rapt; she couldn’t bear to finish her ham and cheese omelet. She only stirred the hash browns around her plate with lazy turns of her fork as she continued to stare across the diner and hoped to never stop.

She left the diner with laughter shared among her friends even while her thoughts were swimming in his broad smile. That wide, white grin caught up to her before she could get her car door unlocked. They talked for a long while, leaned up against the back passenger door of her BMW, but all went quiet when his hand came up with careful fingers moving hair away from her cheek.

He kissed her first, but she never stopped it. Amy, in fact, continued on with deep, wet kisses that left them both breathless, until he whisked her away to his place and made her scream louder than any car alarm that was set off that night. Including hers while it remained in the diner parking lot and was emptied of any loose item.

Matt promised he’d handle it and three days later, he showed up on her doorstep with an armful of her belongings and a warm, promising smile on his face. She let him in and they had a repeat of their first night, though this time it was all done on the baby blue sheets of her four-post bed, with the sun streaming through pale yellow drapes, and not a speck of dust all around them. What did surround them were a few frames on the bedside tables, of Amy and her future husband staring at them as she straddled Matt’s legs, sunk down on his cock, and rode him all the way to completion.

When she collapsed on his chest, she looked at the frame of her and Tom on a Gulf Coast beach the very day he proposed to her. She smacked the picture down, rolled her and Matt over, and drowned herself in blue eyes that were brighter than Tom’s ever could be.

She’d never gotten an answer for how Matt retrieved her belongings, or how her car was returned in tip-top shape with even a minor scratch in the front quarter panel smoothed out. And she never received a clear explanation of what he did for a living, but she was in love—a deep, sudden, fully-engulfing love that she couldn’t run from until she realized it was too late.

That moment of realization wasn’t when she figured out that Matt was the go-to guy for James Patrick Stuart. And it wasn’t when she finally heard that a man went six feet under as payment for stealing her car. She couldn’t do more than turn a blind eye when she found out that thief was only one of dozens that Matt took down all in the name of love, respect, or duty.

She still married him, surrounded by friends and family, stitched up in the same Vera Wang she’d planned for when she thought she’d become a Welling. She continued to stand by his side, kiss him goodnight and good morning, and found herself taken care of by a different manner. Diamonds filled her jewelry box and they saw the best tourist destinations and ate at the finest restaurants in town. She was happily married until she wasn’t …

What tipped the scales was his devotion playing so soundly to Stuart, while Amy was in the backseat. Like when she announced she was pregnant and wanted to get married, but Matt insisted it would only hurt the _family_. 

Stuart paid her a personal visit when he’d found out she let a few homicide detectives into her home when they were investigating a dead hooker found just outside Stuart’s club.

“Now, I’m not one to hit pregnant women,” Stuart said to her while he inspected his fingernails. He crossed his leg over his knee and leaned back into the lounge chair that accented the living room in her and Matt’s new penthouse suit.

Amy was held to the couch by two firm hands—a _friend of the family_ , Stuart had insisted upon their arrival. She shifted on the firm cushions, did her best to shield her large, nearly-ready belly. “I didn’t tell them anything,” she insisted with tears falling down her cheeks.

“And I don’t really _condone_ hitting pregnant women.”

“I swear,” she cried, “I didn’t say a word about you or Matt or the family.”

“But my friend Mark isn’t as adverse to it as I am.”

Amy continued to struggle out of the man’s grip, but it was no use, because Stuart was set on his punishment.

“And after all, it shouldn’t matter what sex, race, or religion, or even maternal status. We’re all worthy of being called a liar, aren’t we?”

Stuart rose from his seat, stood in front of her, then nodded at Pellegrino, who tugged so quickly on her hair, her head snapped back against the frame of the couch with a hard knock. She screamed with pain, but Stuart didn’t care, and no one was coming for her. She’d asked a dozen times where her husband was and Stuart insisted he was doing the same at the home of their bookkeeper, who’s new girlfriend was recently seen having coffee with a police officer.

“You know what I hate, Amy?” He shook his head and made certain to keep her gaze, even at the sharp angle her head was held at, or when she blinked away tears and whimpered in pain. “I hate rats. And I hate liars. And I hate rats to tell on me and my family, and then lie about it.”

“I didn’t do any of that! I swear!”

Stuart hummed, then tsked and shook his head. “If only I could believe you.”

Those final words hung heavy in the air as he nodded at Pellegrino before leaving the home without another look back.

  


  
   
 _This ain’t TV … you’re not nabbing your guy in an hour_ , Williams used to say whenever Jensen was impatient about a string of robberies or even domestic violence victims that were too scared to really turn against their significant others.

Jensen learned early how true that statement was, but it doesn’t mean he manages to be tolerant of how much time passes between one lead on Stuart and the next. Danneel reports that Stuart is laying low since she and Wade were arrested, says he’s been talking about police payrolls and snagging new employees to help avoid even the simplest of traffic stops.

Far too often, Jensen finds himself asking _So, what’s going on here?_ when he sees Danneel, Manns, ADA Brown, and even Jared.

Jared, who runs into him on occasion – at the County building and at Buckmaster’s, the northside cop bar that is always a favorite late-night stop of Jensen's. A funny thing happens as Jensen waits for his case with Stuart to develop: things start to happen with Jared, and he finds himself enjoying it.

It’s something like dating without the labels, or maybe just a friends with benefits situation, except Jensen isn’t sure he’d call Jared just a friend. Not when they’re sharing rounds at Buckmaster’s and spending nights at each other’s places.

And he knows it’s something else when they’re grabbing a late dinner together at a greasy spoon, fresh-grilled burgers joined by a sloppy mess of cheese fries, and he has to leave without much of an explanation.

His phone beeps with a text from _Turner & Hooch_, an inside joke between him and Danneel. There are just three numbers _411_ and he knows he needs to meet with her at their spot. Only, he can’t say that much to Jared.

He just takes a large bite of his burger, hurries out of the booth, and offers a small smile to Jared, who’s completely lost and yet a bit suspicious. “I’ve got a thing.”

“What kind of thing?" Jared asks, and Jensen knows he should ignore it, should keep on his path to the door, but he stops and Jared continues to stare at him. “I thought you said you were done for the night?”

“Yeah, you know,” he fumbles, trying to put together a good excuse. “But we’re not ever really _done_ , right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jared replies with a twist of his mouth.

The odd look on Jared’s face, filled with judgment and disappointment, stops Jensen in his tracks. “What’s wrong?”

Leaning back in the booth, Jared sets his arm over the back of the seat, huffs, and shrugs. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“Just … you say you’re done for the night, and we’re having a nice dinner, then you run off on a booty call or something?”

Jensen chuckles. “Dinner at Chuck’s is hardly a nice dinner.”

Jared glares at him. “You know what I mean.”

Honestly, he replies, “I don’t know that I do.” After seconds of silence, Jensen chances to ask, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug.

Jensen sits back down on his side of the booth, slides his plate away from the place setting so he can rest his arms on the table, and settles in for some straight talk. “It’s not a booty call, I swear.”

Jared’s detective voice comes out, flippant and patient. “Why do you have to swear on that?”

He shrugs again. “It just seems like something you want me to swear on.”

“Is it your case? The one you’re always hush-hush on?”

“You know I can’t talk about that,” he murmurs back while intently watching Jared, trying to relay his honesty in the fact that he would if he could, but it will never happen.

“You’re not doing anything wrong, are you?”

“What?” he nearly shrieks, then glances around to make sure no one around them is paying them any attention.

“There’re a lot of bad guys on the force.”

 _Like I don’t know that_ , Jensen thinks, but instead frowns when he considers that Jared might think Jensen is one of them.

“And you’ve been pretty damn secretive since the day I met you.”

Jensen tries to deflect, to make them both feel better about the whole situation. He smiles and shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about … no one else knows about the boxes of Avengers comics in my storage space.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Jared mumbles.

“I just really like Captain America,” he jokes. “And so should you. He’s America’s greatest warrior.”

“Next to you?”

“Damn, right.”

Now they share a smile and the tension withers away. Enough so that Jensen is slower to leave the booth and sets a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “I’ll drop by when I’m done with this and make it up to you.”

“I’ll be waiting with bells on,” he deadpans, then adds a flirty, “And nothing else.”

“That’s my guy.”

There’s another shared smile, something more private, intimate, and Jensen feels it in his stomach. That tiny burst of excitement turns into nerves when he shows up to the meeting spot with Danneel, halfway across town in another diner that looks much the same as the one he’d just escaped.

Danneel’s done up with an excessively high rack and plunging neckline, hair in messy waves, and a black leather jacket barely covering her top. If he didn’t know any better, he really would call her a working girl like the early excuse he fed Jared, but he knows it’s her part to play and she’s doing a damn fine job at it.

She also looks pissed off when he shows up, and she rolls her eyes when he sits across from her. “Took you long enough.”

“Sorry … I was in the middle of a … thing.”

“A thing? Sounds exciting.”

“You’re so cute when you’re angry.”

“I’m _hungry_ ,” Danneel insists. “And impatient. I ordered for us.”

“I actually just ate.”

“With Padalecki?” she asks idly, then grabs her drink to sip through the straw while staring at him. “People do talk, you know?”

His stomach swirls and acid rises in his chest. “What people?”

“Stuart’s got a guy on the narc. They’re hoping to turn him.”

Jensen snorts and rubs a hand over his face. “He’d actually just asked me if _I_ was one of the bad guys.”

Her voice drops, less attitude and more inquisitive, like back when she was in uniform. “Maybe he’s trying to get a reference on Stuart before he takes an envelope.”

“He’s not on Stuart’s payroll,” he insists.

“Not yet.”

“He’s _not_ , and never will be. Jared’s one of the good guys.”

She rolls her eyes then leans back from the table when the waitress arrives to deliver their food. Once they’re left alone again, she smarts, “And he’s on a first-name basis, I see.”

“I know you didn’t call me to talk about who I’m sleeping with …”

A few fries are eaten, and Danneel acts as casually possible, all while her eyes comb the room, as they always do as an undercover always watching her back. “It’s about Brown. Stuart’s got someone in his office skimming files.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jensen whispers harshly. “How much money does he really have to be paying off all these people?”

She gives Jensen an empty smile while bringing her sandwich up to eat. “It’s gotta be Scrooge McDuck piles of money.”

Jensen fiddles with the plate in front of him, feeling his stomach calling for some of the bacon cheeseburger in front of him. “Do you have a name?”

“Abel.”

Jensen fishes through his memory and can’t recall encountering anyone with that name with any of his dealings with the DA’s office. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Danneel replies around her crunchy chewing of a BLT. “They were joking about Cain and Abel, and how the first human to die is also the first fallen with the DA.”

He plays with the burger on his plate and finally takes a greedy bite. His taste buds thank him, as does his only half-full stomach that hated walking out on dinner. “How much do they know?”

“Not much yet … there’re rumors about someone in the DA’s office fronting a mole, but they’re not sure which side of the fence it’s on yet.”

Around another healthy bite, Jensen asks, “So they don’t know if it’s with them or us?”

“They’re fishing for it. But there's also someone tied to Speight's case who's looking around.” 

"Speaking of, did you find anything in that ledger?"

"I found a lot of things. My summarization is more like a dissertation." After a second, she snorts. “I thought you already ate?”

“Shut up,” he mumbles through his chewing, “tell me more.”

Come the weekend, Jensen’s called off to a crime scene far before he’d planned to even wake up. He has little info on why, has less to explain to Jared when he crawls out of the guy’s bed, but the address tells him the name of that pale face of the crime scene techs have been calling Jane Doe.

“Word has it one of your targets lives here.” Crime Scene Investigator Rob Benedict says while checking the body’s neck for bruising.

“Yeah, that’s Amy Gumenick.”

“Like, the beauty queen?” Benedict looks up quickly and squints with memory. “Wasn’t she Miss Newark or something?”

“Jersey,” Jensen replies flatly while staring at the poor woman’s face. “She was on the Miss America broadcast in 2003.”

“You must be a fan,” the man jokes from behind his camera.

“Just a professional interest.”

Jensen continues checking over the body. Her face has gone beyond pale, which he guesses is because she’s been here for a while. Could explain why he hadn’t heard from or about Cohen in a week or so. He _was_ told about her interview with homicide, knew that Rosenbaum was heading up the case and had little to share, and now assumes word got around the station and into the wrong hands.

Or the right ones, as far as Cohen and Stuart were concerned.

Her eyes show signs of petechial, little blood vessels purged of their contents, and her neck has distinctly purple lines in the shapes of fingers.

The space around them is upended, drawers emptied to the floor, chairs ripped and turned over, and a number of crude drawings on the walls—all in an effort to show a break-in, theft, and a wrong time in the wrong place kind of death. But Jensen knows better by now. 

Back at the B.O.C., there are nearly a hundred tapes of Amy walking alongside Cohen, talking to him on the phone, even waiting around to meet him out in the world, and Jensen has watched and listened to every single one in his effort to get more insight into the hitman’s life. This isn’t the first person that Jensen’s had to scratch off the Stuart Family Tree that also talked to the police. He’s sure it won’t be the last.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Rosenbaum says as he steps up beside Jensen.

Jensen nods in return then takes a second glance. “You caught this one, too?”

“We’re understaffed and overworked.”

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” Jensen asks with a little smirk.

“No rest for anyone these days,” Rosenbaum replies with a motion towards Amy Gumenick’s body. “What do you know about this?”

It doesn’t matter that he’s known Mike for over a decade, that they worked a short stint in homicide when they were both getting their legs under them. He’s not about to share facts with anyone not in the inner circle. “Not enough. What about you?”

Mike eyes him, a critical gaze of a seasoned detective. Jensen’s sure he’s aimed the same look at a number of suspects over the years—and that makes him wary in this moment, that Mike would eye him like a suspect, especially here.

“I just got on the scene,” Mike says, a bit of defense in his voice. “What _should_ I know?”

Jensen shakes his head, trying to reason just how much he can share about the sad fact that a woman who fell in love with the wrong person has lost her life, no matter whose ring she wore on her finger.

“C’mon,” Mike needles, “you’re not gonna help out an old friend?”

“I don’t have much more than you do,” Jensen lies, waving off the question as if he could be ignored that easily. He’s still being carefully watched, can’t ignore the worry worming through his system as to why Mike is so interested to know when he supposedly is fresh to the case in just the last ten minutes.

“I doubt you’d be here if you didn’t have more than my blank slate.”

Jensen shrugs and fakes his best stupidity. “If I were smarter than you, I would’ve made it in homicide, right?” They laugh it off, and Jensen only relents a tiny tidbit to please Mike. “She’s married to Matt Cohen, who bought this penthouse just after the wedding. I don’t know what all they’ve been up to lately.”

“Isn’t Cohen one rung below Stuart?” Mike asks, seemingly out of curiosity, but Jensen learned long ago to trust few people in his life.

“Something like that.”

“You think he killed his wife? His big, fat, pregnant wife?”

“I don’t know about that. But I do know that anything is possible in love and death.”

Mike pats Jensen on the back and winks. “You got that right. Look, you hear anything, remember anything, or come across some good intel on Cohen, you give me a call, alright?”

Now Jensen watches Mike, though he tries to cut it short before Mike is clued into Jensen’s guarded distrust. “Yeah, and maybe you’ll do the same?”

“B.O.C. really looking into taking down Stuart?”

“That’s too big a fish,” Jensen laughs off. “We’re looking into smaller bait right now. Not that I can talk about it,” he adds quickly. “You know how it goes.”

“My lips are sealed,” he insists, mocking the motion with his fingers across his mouth.

“Appreciated.”

“Of course. That’s what friends are for?”

“Friends like you?” Jensen jokes.

Mike grins goofily then nudges Jensen’s side. “Speaking of, I’ve heard you’re hanging with a narc a lot lately.”

As if he wasn’t already on alert, his worry heightens and he straightens his back. “Says who?”

“A few friends around the office. So it’s true? You and Padalecki?”

“We exchanged some information on a case.” Jensen shrugs and focuses in on Rob moving around Amy Gumenick’s body with slow, methodical movements to as not to disrupt anything near her. “You know him? Is he a good cop?”

“Who’s asking? B.O.C., or Jenny Ross?”

Jensen rolls his eyes at the old nickname, one Mike used to insist be used undercover. “It’s all business,” he insists. “Just like you should be on this murder.”

“I’m all business, all the time, baby.”

Jensen shakes his head, takes another look at the scene while making mental notes about who to talk to later without raising suspicion, and then heads out with thoughts to call ADA Brown from the car.

“Gumenick is dead,” Jensen says once Brown picks up the call. It’s taken a few tries to reach him, with Brown’s assistant reporting the lawyer had a few court appearances. Now, Jensen sits in the parking lot of Jared’s condo, his car idling in case he needs to run off and talk to Brown or even Danneel, but she hasn’t returned his _411_ text yet.

“Well, hello, Detective Ackles. And how are we today?”

“Pretty tired and grouchy, and now awfully interested in Cohen’s whereabouts.”

“I told you last week, and the one before that,” Brown insists coolly, “I need more than a hunch to get a warrant on him.”

“His wife’s dead body isn’t enough now?” Jensen complains.

“Is Homicide on it?”

“Yeah, Rosenbaum. Again. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Like what?”

Jensen doesn’t answer, biting his tongue and searching for the right words, knowing Brown wants something concrete to follow.

“Don’t tell me it’s a hunch,” Brown complains.

“It’s an extremely strong feeling,” he argues, “based on nearly two decades of good police work.”

“An extremely strong feeling sounds an awful lot like a hunch.”

Jensen sighs and bites at his bottom lip. “What if I’ve got something on tape?”

“Like what?”

“Like, some kind of threat to Amy’s life?” he offers. “Something that could indicate Cohen’s eventual connection to her murder.”

Brown takes his time, likely trying to fight the idea. He’s been fairly skeptical of Jensen’s whole set-up from the start. Getting the ADA to answer after three tries is pretty reasonable at this point with how slow he’s been to come around to the task force. “You bring me something material and I’ll look at it.”

“And you’ll get me a war—”

“I’ll _look at it_ ,” Brown repeats. “And then we’ll talk.”

“God, you’re such a pain in my ass,” Jensen complains with a small chuckle at the end.

“And you’re a total sweetheart.”

“You bet I am. Just ask …” He trails off when _Jared_ comes to mind and he knows it’s not the right time to bring that name into the mix. But he probably should at some point, especially if he’s about to look into Rosenbaum after he brought Jared’s name into the mix.

“Your mother? I will when I see her tonight,” Brown laughs.

“You’re a dick, and I’m hanging up now.” And Jensen does, with Brown’s laughter still ringing in his ears. He shoves aside all thoughts of that terrible image of his mother going anywhere near the ADA, and finally turns off his car to head up to Jared’s.

He’s slow to knock on the door, curious how he’ll ask what Jared knows of Rosenbaum, how word got around about them, and if there’s any way he can look into Cohen on the narcotics side of things; maybe Cohen’s been seen around some of Jared’s contacts.

After a quick rap on the door, Jared calls out for Jensen to head in, which actually stalls Jensen for a few more seconds.

Once inside, he slowly looks around for Jared and finally hears noises from the kitchen off to the right. “You know,” Jensen calls out, “as a police officer, I would assume you’d have better sense about locking doors."

“Funny how you just came right in without searching the place,” Jared tosses back.

“I did. For a second. Or two,” he tacks on while still looking around Jared’s living room as if he expects something to be out of place. Then he’s quickly distracted by Jared breezing into the kitchen doorway and smirking at him. “I could’ve been a murderer or something, and you just called me right in, careless as you please.”

“You worry too much.”

“I worry the right amount,” he insists, and feels it hit real close to home after the day he’s had. Gumenick’s dead body is a solid image in his head, sad and troubling, and his interaction with Rosenbaum or the fact that Cohen hasn’t been seen in nearly two weeks does little to ease his concern.

“Well, you can start worrying about my capabilities in the kitchen because I made dinner.”

Jensen narrows his eyes. “It’s nine o’clock at night.”

“Is the sky still blue?” Jared snarks back.

“Not right now, because it’s really fucking late.”

“Did you eat yet?” And now Jared appears smug with his arms crossing over his chest, which seems broader than the last time Jensen had seen him. Which was just last night.

And fuck, Jensen is immediately distracted by the memory of them fucking through most of the night, barely sleeping, until Jensen was called away to the murder scene early this morning. “No,” he admits, then teases, “But that’s not really the point, now is it?”

“No, it isn’t,” Jared concedes. “The point is that I have steaks resting on the counter and cauliflower au gratin on the stovetop, all waiting for you to demolish it.”

“You’re trying to impress me,” Jensen points out with a crooked smile.

“I’d insist that I’m trying to feed you and be nice to you.”

Jensen takes a few steps forward, aware of the way Jared’s body leans away from the frame and towards him like a magnet being drawn home. “Oh really? Why is that?”

Jared shrugs, yet keeps his eyes right on Jensen’s, never daring to look away. “Just been in a good mood today.”

“And what has you in such a good mood?”

“It might’ve been the copious amount of orgasms before a certain someone ran out the door.”

Jensen bursts with a loud laugh, bright and amused. Then makes a face at the second half of that statement. “I’m sorry about that part. I was really hoping we could’ve gone for a record.”

“We’ve got tonight to try again.” Jared winks, then swings his arm out to latch onto Jensen’s belt and tug him forward. At what point Jensen had moved even closer to Jared, there’s no good answer, but Jensen is glad to be snugged up against Jared’s body now. “That is, if you can handle it on an empty stomach.”

Jensen immediately sets his hands on Jared’s ass, fingers pressing into his ass and keeping their groins flush together. He knows blood is now on its way to his dick, wonders—hell, hopes—that Jared will be there soon enough. “We could consider the steak a reward for the first round.” He nips a kiss at Jared’s chin, another a bit north on his jaw, then runs his lips over Jared’s ear. “That is if you don’t take too long.”

“No other way to find out …”

With an agreeable nod, Jensen drops to his knees and swiftly undoes Jared’s belt and pants, yanks his underwear down to his knees, then licks over the head of Jared’s cock. Jared sucks in a loud breath and immediately rests his hands on Jensen’s head, hips rocking forward as Jensen opens up around Jared’s dick. It slides quickly into Jensen’s wide mouth, his tongue and lips sucking tightly, wetly, noisily. He grips Jared’s thighs but keeps his mouth loose as Jared fucks in quick and deep, until Jensen holds Jared in place with Jared buried far inside.

“Jensen, fuck, you sure?” Jared grumbles, even as his hands slip to the back of Jensen’s head and keep him in place.

Jensen pulls off quickly then sucks hard at the head of Jared’s cock before diving back in to take Jared down. He repeats the method, gets faster and sloppier with each run down Jared’s dick, and with the way Jared’s whimpering floats higher and higher, Jensen knows it’s a good plan to stick to. Until Jared’s nails dig into his scalp, signal how close Jared is, and Jensen pulls back to fist him with a spit-soaked hand, going as quick as possible to get Jared off. At the first spurt of come, Jensen mouths at Jared’s cock again, sucking down all that Jared gives up and licking all around the rim of his cockhead until Jared whines at too much.

Without a word, Jared joins Jensen on the floor and rubs over Jensen’s hard-on while shoving his tongue down Jensen’s throat, seemingly as far down as his dick had just been. It doesn’t take much with Jared's fingers squeezing down around Jensen’s cock, pressing deep against denim and giving Jensen just enough to grind against until he’s coming in his pants. Just like that first time they’d met up for beers and Jensen lost any sense of control in the backseat of Jared’s SUV.

This time, he’s less embarrassed because Jared is happy to get Jensen out of his clothes, shower down with him in a stall that should be enough to hold an adult but can’t manage the two of them without a lot of bumped elbows, then dress him in his own oversized sweats and tee so they can sit together at the kitchen table and finally enjoy the dinner Jared had put together for them.

It doesn’t matter that it’s well past ten by now and Jensen’s completely drained, having put in another round in the shower, Jensen’s brain returns to how he’d spent his morning.

In between forkfuls of cauliflower, Jensen watches Jared as he thinks about asking his questions. He doesn’t have to work up too much courage; Jared breaks the ice.

“You look like you’re thinking too much,” he says after a long gulp of water.

Jensen looks right at Jared when he asks the question, needing to be sure of the exact reaction he has to it. “You know a Michael Rosenbaum?”

Jared seems to take his time, playing with the food on his plate, running his tongue over his teeth, until he finally picks up his head and turns to Jensen. “Who’s that?”

A long moment passes as Jensen considers Jared, tries to judge if Jared is really clueless on the fact or hiding his cards. “He’s a homicide cop.”

Now Jared shrugs and casually gets back to eating, mumbling between bites. “I might’ve run into him before.”

“Well, he seems to know you.” Jensen is laser focused on Jared, and everything seems obvious. The slow blink of his hazel eyes, a small twitch of the corner of his mouth, a thorough swallow that bulks out Jared’s neck. “Knew your name, even knew we were involved.”

Jared puts his fork down, wipes a napkin across his lips and sets it down next to his silverware, and fully turns towards Jensen with his elbow on the table. “And how do you know him?”

“Ran into him.”

“Where at?”

“At a scene.”

“A crime scene?” Jared asks, even when it’s obvious that two cops wouldn’t be a part of any other kind. And here, Jensen’s eyes narrow at Jared’s quick questions, but Jared simply shrugs in return, all happy-go-lucky. “Hey, I’m a cop … I can interrogate you, too.”

“I’m not interrogating you,” he defends quickly, because he most certainly doesn’t mean to. Maybe fish around for some information, sure, but he doesn’t intend to put Jared on defense.

“It sure feels like it,” Jared insists with a tip of his head.

Jensen sighs, dragging it out to settle himself of the tension he’s built in this room. He puts his things aside, pushing the plate away from the placemat in front of him, and shifts towards Jared. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. It was just alarming that he asked about you.”

Jared’s voice evens out into something more curious, maybe even confused or worried, really. “Where did you run into him?”

There’s a giant, rotund elephant in the room, one Jensen has fought ever since he first met Jared. How much does he tell about his case? How little can he get away with before someone will put a few lines together and realize the Bureau of Organized Crime has an undercover in Stuart’s organization.

Worse yet, Jensen worries about how quickly Jared will realize that undercover is Danneel.

In the end, Jensen decides the bare bones facts are enough. Jared’s police, too, after all; he’d find the same information in any computer. “We were at a murder scene this morning.”

“That’s where you had to go?”

He still remembers sliding out of bed, batting away Jared’s wandering hands that wanted to tug him back into bed. Jensen would’ve taken him up on that offer, would love to any other day of the week, but he knew it was bad news when Morgan was the one texting him the alert.

“Who’s the dead body?”

Jensen continues to stare at Jared as he relives this morning and how his stomach had turned over with a hard weight pressing against his sternum when he’d recognized Amy Gumenick.

“Is this all part of that super-secret case you can never talk about?” Jared asks, a little tight and a whole lot bothered with the fake smile on his face.

“Yeah,” he admits. There’s no point in deflecting it now, especially after doing it for this many months already. “It is part of that.”

“So, Mike’s investigating a murder related to your task force, and now you wanna know what I know?”

A few words line up and Jensen feels tiles clicking together with a loud echo. “So you do know him?” When Jared doesn’t answer, Jensen points out, “You called him Mike. And you know about a task force.”

Jared shuts his eyes and leans back in his seat. When he looks at Jensen again, there’s sadness creasing his beautiful features and Jensen’s heart pounds hard in his chest with fear of where this is going. “Yeah, I know him. Ran into him on my first case when Lindberg turned up dead.”

“And that’s it?” he asks quickly. “How would he know we were together?”

“I don’t know,” Jared replies with a shrug. “People talk. Just like they say you’re on some underground committee to take down every dirty cop in the city.” He goes quiet and carefully watches Jensen, eyes growing more concerned the longer they stare at one another. “Which makes me wonder why you’re asking me all these questions.”

“It’s not that, I swear.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can’t … I can’t go there.”

“With me or at all?”

“At all,” Jensen says firmly.

“I don’t know that I believe you,” Jared mumbles.

Jensen’s heart stops altogether, as does this moment as far as he’s concerned. His vision tilts enough to make him shuffle back in his seat as if he’ll fall right out of his chair, and it’s only worse when Jared shares his explanation.

“I mean, we met with you lying to me right off the bat. And ever since then, I just went along with your need for secrecy, as if this relationship wasn’t going anywhere. But I’m starting to think your motives aren’t my motives here.”

“I only lied in the beginning,” Jensen attempts with humor. “Since then, I’ve just been evasive.”

Jared’s only reply is an unamused stare, so Jensen lifts his hands in defense.

“Okay, sorry, that was a cheap joke.”

“And not a very good one,” Jared points out.

“I know. But, I just …” Jensen grasps at straws, begging himself to come up with the right words. And maybe even begging Jared for blind understanding. “Look, you’ve had cases, I’m sure, where you can't tell anyone else about details and witnesses and whatever other shit comes up that could get you into trouble.”

“Yeah, of course,” he half-laughs, “but I can usually talk to other cops about those things.”

Jensen feels Jared’s stare growing more critical, and he’s even less sure of how to get through this conversation. He’s suddenly tired and worn down, muscles so tight he feels uncomfortable in his chair. “Well, my stuff is on a need-to-know basis. And that’s about all I can offer you right now.”

"Right," Jared mumbles, setting his silverware on his plate and rising to put the used dishes in the sink. He stays at the counter, rigid back still facing Jensen, and he clears his throat. "I got an early thing in the morning."

Jensen recognizes the dismissal, considers ways to fight it. He's certain the only safe bet to winning Jared over in this moment is to tell him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but ... and yet, it's quite impossible at this time. 

So all Jensen offers is a soft "yeah, of course," and heads on home.

“Detective Ackles,” ADA Brown rings out with false cheer when Jensen steps into his office. “Just the man I didn’t want to see today.”

“You’re real cute,” Jensen grumbles, waiting for the coffee to kick in.

“And you’re real cranky.”

Jensen doesn’t bother arguing that; he’d slept like hell last night. It was a long, slow ride back to his house after the stressful conversation with Jared, and an even longer night of tossing and turning when he wasn’t staring at the ceiling of his own bedroom. He didn’t realize how long it’d been since he’d slept alone … maybe only three months, but it was long enough to make an impression on his sleep habits.

“What do you know about a Mike Rosenbaum?” Jensen asks, bypassing any other pleasantries or small talk.

“Are we trying to subpoena him, too?”

“If you’ve got anything good on him, sure,” Jensen suggests with a wide motion of his arm. “Let’s go for the sweep.”

Brown gets back to his paperwork, files strewn across his desk, and his pen flying quickly on a legal pad. “Cassidy deals with him over on Homicide. I haven’t seen much of him in quite a few years.”

“You think she’d be willing to talk about him?”

The pen stops mid-word and Brown looks up from beneath his eyelashes, otherwise frozen from Jensen’s question. “And this is for?”

Slowly, Jensen offers, “Something like a hunch.”

Brown tosses his pen to the desk and leans back in his chair, making it rock back and forth. “You and your goddamn hunches. You really think they’re gonna lead anywhere tangible for us? You’ve got all these great ideas but no evidence on anything and I’m getting pretty tired of you wasting my time.”

“He’s investigating Amy Gumenick’s murder! And Speight's! Isn't that to make you suspicious?!” Jensen yells. Aggravation has his muscles twitching and fingers clenching. He waits until he has control over his voice to further explain. “He asked a few things that felt too close to this, and so I’m wondering what all he knows.”

“What kinds of things?” the ADA asks slowly, sitting forward as if he’s ready to listen very carefully.

Jensen fights against admitting to it, but he feels obligated to, especially after coming this far in the discussion. “About another cop, someone I know. It hit me the wrong way for him to ask.”

“What cop?”

“Jared Padalecki,” he murmurs, looking anywhere but at Brown.

“The guy who arrested your undercover? The one you couldn’t get any info out of?”

“Yeah, that one.” Finally, he faces Brown, tries to think of him as the old friend he used to be and not just the legal roadblock between Jensen’s case and putting Stuart behind bars. If he’s going to follow this premonition, then he needs to fully commit to it and keep Sterling in the know. “Which, relatedly … I should disclose a personal relationship with another officer whose name appears in my paperwork.”

“Are you trying to get me fired?” Brown bellows, standing quickly and kicking his desk. “Are you trying to get _yourself_ fired while you’re at it? How the hell am I supposed to bring that information to my boss, yours, or even Morgan?”

“Maybe you just don’t?” he jokes, but it falls flat. He has to clear his throat and adjust his stance before trying again. “So, I just wanted you to know, about why I’m curious about Rosenbaum.”

“Yeah, what a great way to bring that to light.”

“At least I did?” Jensen offers, and again fails to gain any movement from the ADA. “What about Rosenbaum? Any chance we can get his file and see what his story is?”

“Highly unlikely,” Brown says, getting back to his paperwork and shoving Jensen off the trail. “He’s not on my roll call.”

Quietly, Jensen accepts the brush off and nods before turning to the door. “Understood.” Without a glance back, he heads over to ADA Katie Cassidy’s office, knocking even as she’s busy on the phone.

She puts her hand up to keep him at the doorway and continues with her conversation. It’s mostly legalese that Jensen semi-understands, yet it has no merit to his needs. He rocks on his heels, whistles, even softly claps his hands together every so often just to annoy her.

Once her call is ended, she's on her feet and marching out of her office. Jensen hurries to follow, trying to ask her what she knows about Rosenbaum, but is drowned out by her sudden shouting for someone down the hall.

"Abel! Do you have my 7-68 yet?"

"On it now," a younger guy smiles from behind a tiny desk just outside her office. 

"Get it and bring it in here, we gotta file it in the next two hours."

Jensen flashes back to one of his most recent meetings with Danneel and the lead about someone in the DA's office being on the payroll. The tip hadn't gone anywhere substantial, but now that Jensen stands just twenty yards away, he's up for checking it out.

Especially with the guy pulling together files and rushing away from his desk to deliver whatever paperwork Cassidy needed. Jensen glances around then quickly observes the messy desk with manila and brown folders strewn about, loose leaf covering the rest of the desk. He shifts a few pages around, but nothing really comes to light. He even checks the rusty drawers of the desk that was likely one of the first brought into this building decades ago, and still comes up empty. The phone rings, and Jensen steps back quickly in alarm. 

There is still no one around, and Abel doesn't return to answer the call. It rings five times then stops, immediately followed by the buzzing of a cell phone resting beneath two thick accordion files. Jensen moves the paperwork to look out of curiosity, and then freezes as he stares at the phone's display. Nine numbers add up to a whole heck of a lot more than a personal phone call. 

He's seen a hell of a lot of numbers in his files—cell phones, office lines, home numbers—and this one is the most popular around the bend with Stuart's crew. It's Mark Pellegrino's cell, and it's tempting Jensen to answer.

The ringing ends before Jensen can pick it up, so he turns away, intent to leave and look into it in the most legal manner possible. Yet, the phone rings again, same number, and Jensen chances to answer it with a mellow, quiet, "Hello?"

"Mr. Flowers needs a search for the Canadian."

Jensen’s mind whirls to hear that name again. _Mr. Flowers_ had shown up in dozens of call logs, yet there’s still no clear answer as to who it is, let alone who the Canadian could be. Still, Jensen’s more than certain it is Pellegrino talking. The voice sounds just like all the other calls Jensen's tapped from Danneel's undercover phone. 

"He's planted the bush in the kitchen." As Jensen remains quiet, Pellegrino growls, "Do you hear me? Or do I have to talk to your sister again?"

There's a tiny bit of relief to realize that Abel was likely threatened into helping Stuart's organization, rather than turning against the government for fun and money. Then concern creeps in and Jensen knows he has to protect this kid and find out as much as he can.

"Yes, I hear you," Jensen mumbles back. "What is this for?"

"The beauty queen, you moron. Do we have to spell everything out to you?"

The call ends and Jensen drops the cell phone to the desk when Abel slowly approaches him. The kid's eyes are blown wide like a deer in headlights, and his hands clench around the files in his hands, crinkling papers.

"Why are you answering my phone?" Abel asks quietly.

Jensen puts his hands up in a calming nature, and drops his voices to be as soothing as possible. "I wasn't intending to, but—”

"Shit, you're Brown's guy!"

"I am—no—I’m not anyone's guy," Jensen insists, rounding the desk to put an arm around Abel and lead him away from the area. Incidentally, they head right for Brown. "Look, we can talk about this and get a civil conversation out of the way, and maybe even get a little help for your sister."

"What about my sister?!" he shouts. He backs away from Jensen, drops the files, and shifts to his left like he's ready to bolt. 

As Jensen tries to calm Abel down, Brown comes out of his office and sighs. "Jesus, Ackles, of course you're part of someone going crazy in my office."

"Hey, Sterling," Jensen carefully smiles at the ADA, "I think we should all sit down and have a little talk with Mr. Abel here. And maybe even bring his sister in."

It takes more convincing from Jensen, a lot of veiled comments and insistences that Abel and his family will be immediately picked up and put into protection if he agrees to tell them all he knows about whatever search Pellegrino's looking to botch.

They sit down in Brown’s office, door closed, and everyone goes silent as Abel’s thin knee bounces up and down erratically. Jensen sits at the edge of the desk and rests his hand over Abel’s knee to calm him, asks him carefully to tell them everything, and listens closely as Abel says Stuart and Pellegrino had approached him a few months ago in the parking lot of the County Building. 

“What have they asked you for?” Cassidy asks from where she stands by the door.

Abel looks over his shoulder then shies away from her intense gaze. “Advance warnings on things like phone taps. So they’d know what not to do or say …”

Jensen looks back to Brown and grimaces. “No wonder they dump all their phones.” He turns to Abel again and keeps his voice easy and loose to comfort the tension in them all. “Pellegrino said Mr. Flowers needed a search … who’s Mr. Flowers?”

Licking his lips, Abel stalls his answer, even looks away from Jensen and all other prying eyes in the room. “They never told me.”

“Jake, c’mon,” Jensen wheedles, “they had to have told you who he is.”

“What kind of trouble am I gonna be in?” he asks, eyes wide and mouth bitten red. 

Cassidy speaks up first with an offer for immunity if he talks, and Brown follows it up with the promise for witness protection. Abel seems to think on it for far longer than Jensen is comfortable watching. 

“Who is Mr. Flowers?” Jensen asks again.

“He’s in the police,” he mumbles. 

Jensen sits up straight with a chill running down his spine. His fingers shake, along with his knees when he tries to stand. “What kind of police?”

“I don’t know!” Jake insists. “I just had an address to drop files off at. Once ADA Cassidy signed off on the files, I made copies, and dropped them at a P.O. box. I swear, that’s all I know, that’s it,” he tacks on quickly with the same wild, scared look in his eyes. 

“Okay, okay,” Jensen says with a soft hush in his voice. He leans against the desk again and bends forward to look Abel in the eyes. “And he _planted a bush_?”

“Evidence,” he mumbles again. “It means he was planting evidence.”

Jensen sucks in a breath and sits up before twisting to stare at Brown, who remains quiet and still in his chair as if attempting to put all this information together. They always knew there’d been dirty cops, had a few names, but perhaps there was a new one they had to target.


	3. Part Three

Mike Rosenbaum was born to a good family that grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. His father was a hard-working pipe-cutter; his mother a stay-at-home mom responsible for six kids all under the age of eight by the time Mike came along. The neighborhood was inhabited by a number of Irish families that prayed to a different name than Mike and his family did, but they all looked the same with a large bulk of kids running through the streets and a well-played twinkle in their eye. 

By the time Mike was sixteen, he was well-known throughout the south side. He was the most outgoing, knowledgeable, and driven of Ethel Rosenbaum’s kids. As the years went on, he grew into a man proud to wear his police uniform and come back into the neighborhood wearing it, even when he’d been long past off duty. Those in the area also appreciated knowing a man in blue, having a ‘guy from the neighborhood’ on speed dial, and Mike rarely checked his morals or policemen’s ethics; he was born a southsider and would always be one, till the day he died.

Which meant that when Brock Kelly approached him at the Big Dunk coffee shop out on 15th Avenue, Mike didn’t think much beyond catching up with an old friend of his youngest sister, the eighth and final child of the Rosenbaums. In minutes, they were shaking hands on an unspoken agreement for future meetings with a few of Brock’s cohorts.

Then he met Matt Cohen, with that sunny smile and even brighter eyes that betrayed the real malice he could employ when needed. The money was a nice bonus, and Mike liked being in demand, so he helped identify areas and corners to avoid, lest Cohen wanted to be stopped by patrolmen while on a big drug run. After a few years, Mike graduated from a patrol officer to Vice, and moved up the food chain with Matt as well.

Then came Mark Pellegrino, whose twisted smile foretold the dark thoughts lingering inside. Mark became Mike’s new contact, or the other way around, really, as Pellegrino delivered message after message after message to keep his compatriots out of trouble with the law. Anything from a botched arrest and failure of Miranda Rights to a misappropriation of evidence, including Mike making sure a brick of coke disappeared from evidence and found its way back into Pellegrino’s hands. 

Soon enough, Mike met the boss … James Patrick Stuart didn’t pay Mike much mind, but Mike figured that was for the best. No need to be tied up with the head of the whole gang; he’d much rather earn a small pay on the side while twisting the law to Pellegrino’s directions.

But then Jensen Ackles came back on the scene. Once a friend of Mike’s, long ago when they were trying to climb the ladder and get somewhere with their careers, long before Jensen found himself out of a job, supposedly, per the records in his file. Tim Omundson’s official, recorded opinion was that Jensen was far too reckless to remain in the field, and word had it that Jensen’s opinion was far from anything resembling a desk. 

So when Mike ran into Ackles quite a few weeks ago, meeting up with a newer girl on Stuart’s payroll, he took notice immediately.

Before he said a word to Jensen, he observed how different the woman sitting across the restaurant was from the one Mike had been introduced to as Elta Graul. Her position at the table was far from the seductress who’d wormed her way into the group, and definitely something more reserved and laser-focused on whatever Ackles was saying. 

She suddenly looked up to Mike approaching the table. Her eyes combed over Mike before widening and easing up with their harsh critique. It appeared she recognized him and knew she had to play back into her role. “Well, hey there, sugar. What’re you doing ‘round these parts?”

Mike grinned at her then at Ackles with a big lift of his eyebrows. “Funny thing, really, just getting some food. How about you folks? Jensen, it’s been years!” he added with a quick smack to Ackles’ shoulder, harder than he’d really intended. 

“You know each other,” she said with a bright, surprised smile. Too bright and too fake of surprise. “Well ain’t that a small world?”

“Really small world, right, Jensen?” Mike asked, casually clapping his hands together, overdoing the mocked ease between them all. 

“Yeah, it really is,” Ackles replied quickly. Mike was amazed at the level of calm Ackles exuded, but he supposed he might be searching pretty deep for any tell from Ackles. “Rosey and I got way far back. Early Vice and a bit in Homicide.”

“Yeah, before you got kicked off the force, right?”

This time, Ackles faltered with a lopsided smile that seemed to strain his face. “Well, it’s not quite like that. I mean, I kind of had a say in it,” he finishes with a small laugh, looking right at his dinner companion. 

“I’m sure you did. You always were the pushy type.” Mike didn’t waste much more time with the two, recognizing that they were bothered enough already, which gave him enough to move forward on.

As soon as he was in his car with a sack of food, he called Pellegrino and reported, “I think you’ve got a problem with that Graul girl.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. I just saw them at Ralphie’s on the west side, and they seem pretty chum-chum. And I’m not just talking about the fucking way.”

“How do you know it’s not like that?”

Mike laughed, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he steered his car out of the lot. “Because last I knew, Jensen Ackles liked big dicks, so unless Graul has one between her legs, there’s something else brewing.”

“Jensen Ackles?” Pellegrino asked with great interest. “Is this someone we gotta worry about?”

“I’d definitely be keeping an eye on him,” Mike insisted. “I know I will.”

“We’ll get someone on him. We’re already scoping out more departments to pay off. Any other buddies in Homicide or Narcotics we can trust?”

“Oh, you trust me now, do you?” he joked.

“Twenty-plus years of working with you? I’m still not sure. But at least you keep the family moving forward.”

“You’re always first on my list, Mark. And you can bet I’ll talk to a few buddies around the water cooler for your other problem.”

   
 _Trust no one. One minute you’ll be knee deep in a hundred different concerned citizens, and the next you’ll be ass-deep in bull shit. Don’t … trust … anyone._

Williams had dozens of anecdotes for people who nearly screwed him over on the job. Early on, Jensen was continually mesmerized that Williams could work his way out of a jam. As time went on, however, he just recognized that Williams had a damn fine way with words. 

Still, they were good words and had great messages behind them, so when Jensen has to rely on Cassidy and not Brown to follow through on the requests, he gets more than a little antsy and sleeps far less than he’d like.

What he can trust is Danneel, so when she texts _411_ , he drops everything to meet up with her. 

She’s all small talk while fiddling with greasy fries and a puddle of ketchup on her plate. “How’s your loverboy?”

“Is that why we’re here?” Jensen asks with a small smile.

“No, not really.” She returns his smile, tipping her head to the side. “But all we ever talk about is me these days.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he replies, and it’s the truth right now. “What do you got?”

Danneel plays more with her food, biting the corner of her mouth. “I think Stuart knows something,” she finally says. “About your set-up. I don’t have anything concrete, but he’s suddenly getting me into a lot of things.”

“That could be good,” Jensen points out. Then his mind goes to places other than Stuart trusting her. “Or really bad.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”

He’ll worry about it, too—quite a lot—but he has questions for her. “What do you know about a Mr. Flowers?”

Danneel’s eyes widen, looking larger than life with a thick coat of eyeliner and shadow painting her face. “That he’s a crazy son of a bitch?”

“Who is it?”

He’s on Stuart’s payroll, but I don’t know his name yet.”

Hopeful, Jensen asks, “Yet?”

“I’m trying to get to that. Now that he’s bringing me into more conversations, I’ve asked a few questions.”

“Don’t ask too many.”

She rolls her eyes while finally eating a few fries at once. “I know, _dad_.

“But, you know …” he trails off, hoping this operation isn’t for nothing.

“Ask enough.” She munches on more fries then heartily drinks from her water glass. “They’re tapping a few cops now. He says it’s for protection, to insure his investments.”

“Any names?”

“Not any new ones.”

Jensen nods and then takes his time to admire her, as his friend and cohort. “Be careful, D.”

She smiles, but it fades away after a few moments. “I’m trying.”

It takes nearly a week for Cassidy to get her paperwork and evidence into place for a search warrant at Ty Olsson's place. It takes less than half that time for Brown to get Jensen a wiretap on Cassidy's and Abel's desks to track any incoming communications.

Early on, it was highly suspicious when Rosenbaum made calls every few hours to check the status of the warrant, insisting they had to get to the drug dealer as soon as possible. 

Jensen didn't believe it for a second. After all, Olsson was brand new into Stuart's organization, and was to be just a mere drug connection ... and Olsson didn't have anything higher than distribution tied to his jacket, all information Jensen had learned early on from a bright, steadfast, and smoking hot narcotics detective he’s still in a bit of hot water with.

Jensen was at least glad he had a chance to talk to Jared after going a few days on radio silence. They met at Buckmasters, sharing a pitcher at a small hi-top table in the corner under low lighting. Just how Jensen wanted it—away from prying eyes or curious ears. 

"Rosenbaum got a warrant to search Olsson's place."

Jared's eyes widen over the rim of the pint glass he sips from. "For what?"

"For murder."

"Who?"

Jensen leans closer, hands resting right next to Jared's. He considers holding those hands as he talks, trying to get them back to where they'd been before that terrible conversation in Jared's kitchen. Instead, he flattens his hands on the sticky table top. "Amy Gumenick. She was married to Matt Cohen, fourth in command for Stuart."

"Like, James Patrick Stuart?" Jared asks with a tiny hysterical laugh. "The head honcho of all drugs, gambling, and prostitutes in the area?"

"The very one," Jensen replies with a nod. "From what I've heard, Olsson isn't one for creating competition and is more of a sharer, right?"

Jared remains dumbfounded, shaking his head and looking down at the table. "Uh, yeah, pretty much seems like it from all I've seen."

"Are you guys trailing him?"

It takes some time for Jared to look at Jensen let alone answer him; the waiting is rough to sit through. "Who's asking?"

Jensen chuckles, then quickly sobers when he realizes the match they're about to have if Jensen isn't completely honest. Jared wants to know where this question comes from and why it's Jensen delivering them. And Jensen thinks that maybe it's finally time to man up to someone he long ago fell for. "B.O.C."

"I knew it," he says hollowly.

Up on his feet, Jensen shuffles his stool around to Jared's side so they can talk even more privately. "Someone planted something at Olsson's and Rosenbaum's been pushing hard on the warrant with Cassidy because he wants to pin Gumenick's murder on your drug dealer. Which, sure, would be nice. Put the guy away and you can get onto something better. But this isn’t right. It’s not Rosenbaum’s case to make."

Those last three words perk Jared up, just as Jensen had hoped they would. "When did she die?"

"February 27th, about five in the morning."

"Olsson was in Canada," Jared replies, sounding like he's on autopilot now. His face is still frozen of any real emotion, as if he can't fluidly work through all of the new information. "He was buying prescription drugs."

"You know this for sure?"

Jared slowly nods and finally brings his gaze up to Jensen, keeping their eyesight on one another. "Remember when I had that family reunion in Texas? And I missed your birthday?"

Jensen leans back while keeping Jared in view. So many tiny tiles slide into place, and there's this monstrous feeling of pride that overpowers any thoughts about Jared lying about not being around on that day. "You sly dog."

With a small shrug, Jared half-heartedly chuckles. "You have your secrets and I have mine."

“You’ve been tracking Olsson all on your own?”

“I’ve got Rhodes.”

“Does she have your back, though?”

Jared scoffs, downs a healthy amount of beer, and then refills both their glasses. “Of course she does. Beyond being a damned good cop, she has a borderline-unhealthy issue with mothering me on occasion.”

“Good,” he says firmly, smiling when Jared eyes him oddly. “I’m glad someone is watching your ass while you’re out there chasing drug dealers and murderers.”

“Meanwhile, you’re tracking Stuart.” He huffs and slants a skeptical look at Jensen. “And you’re worried about me?”

“At least I know my devil.”

“Olsson’s not a murderer, though,” Jared insists. “He’s into drugs and money, but I don’t see him going the extra mile to cut out what could be a very lucrative business arrangement.”

“Would anyone in his organization do it for him?”

Jared shakes his head, looking towards the corner in thought. “I really can’t imagine anything coming down like that. Olsson’s all about honorable business.” He chuckles. “Rhodes says it’s in his Northern blood.”

Jensen narrows his eyes as he replays this conversation along with the one he’d had at the DA’s office. “He’s from Canada?”

“Yeah, that’s why I went up there.”

“The Canadian,” Jensen mumbles. “That’s who Pellegrino was talking about.”

“Who?”

Jensen shakes it off and gets back to their discussion. “You sure he wouldn’t do it?”

Jared shakes his head while playing with his pint glass. “He doesn’t care about low-levels in the competition. Besides, he and Stuart struck up an agreement a few months back, right around the time I first met …”

He tapers off and then turns to stare at Jensen, and Jensen fears this is the moment of the truth for all truths. When he has to fess up to the circumstances under which they met.

“Graul and Wade were going to meet Olsson that night, and we picked up the other two first.” His voice is flat, just reciting facts from what now seems like a lifetime ago, back before they knew one another. Before Jensen bothered considering a relationship with anyone, let alone the guy who could give him golden information on his case. 

“I was gonna try to go after Graul,” Jared says. “Wade, too, and get them to share some intel on Olsson, but … well, you know the rest.”

“Yeah, I do,” Jensen murmurs. 

Jared’s eyes widen and his voice comes out breathy when he says, “You had Graul all along. That’s why you grabbed her, because she was already your informant.”

“Something like that,” he admits. Hoping to change the subject, even the tiniest bit, Jensen shifts even closer to Jared and tries an earnest smile. “Is there anything in your files that can back up Olsson’s whereabouts?”

Taking his time, Jared searches Jensen’s eyes. “And what is your chain of command on that type of information?”

Jensen sucks in a breath, prepares to jump off a cliff into a land far riskier than any he’d ever anticipated at this time. He’s not great with trust, has kept Jared at arm’s length as much as he can when his impulses don’t just give in for him, and now he has to do speak or go home empty handed. “It’d go up to my boss. And an ADA.”

“You have an ADA on this?” he asks rather loud, and shocked. Jensen plants his hand over Jared’s mouth and another around the back of Jared’s head to bring him in close enough that they can whisper. When he lets go, Jared frowns. “Sorry, but I didn’t know it was this deep.”

“That’s what he said,” Jensen fires off and gets another frown from Jared, this time disappointed, followed by a roll of his eyes. He ignores it and leans in close to Jared to continue whispering. “It’s really small, like only four or five of us, and we’ve kept it close for good reason. I’m lucky I’ve even gotten this far without it blowing up in my face. And now …” Jensen sucks in a deep breath, feeling his chest vibrate with anxiety. “Now, if you can help us with Olsson and any of his ties, we can start going after Stuart.”

Jared stalls again, critically thinking, eyebrow furrowed as he keeps his sights on something in the corner. It takes far too long for Jensen’s liking, but he lets Jared take his time in deciding, not wanting to force anything. Not yet.

When Jared turns to him, his face is void of all emotion. “I wouldn’t be able to get to the files without telling Rhodes why.”

Jensen nods slowly. “I understa--”

“But I have a few at my place.”

Immediately, Jensen drops a twenty dollar bill on the table and drags Jared out of the bar.

They really are only a few folders that Jared has stashed away at his place … “For a little late night reading,” he jokes … but they’re pretty potent in regards to Olsson’s innocence regarding the Gumenick murder.

Jensen considers the possibility that all of this could have remained in Jared’s hands, with Narcotics at the two-seven, and never seen the light of day as far as Stuart was concerned. If it weren’t for a terrible mistake in ethics against Jared’s SUV, and Jensen’s impulses drawing Jared closer and closer, there wouldn’t be a chance for Jensen to call up his boss with some good news for once.

A call log between Stuart and Olsson tells a darker story than any lines Jensen has been tracking for the last few weeks.

_Stuart: I have a lot of people who can help us get this deal done._

_Olsson: Is that so?_

_Stuart: I have a lot of business partners. You kind of have to these days._

_Olsson: Well, I suppose that’s what happens when you grow the town you live in._

_Stuart: That’s very true, my friend. And I knew you’re new around here and all, but I’m willing to listen to your proposition._

_Olsson: Twenty percent above cost for the product._

_Stuart: And here I thought you were serious._

_Olsson: I am. Twenty percent is a fair price._

_Stuart: Maybe back where you come from. But things are a bit different down here in the good ol’ U. S. of A. And I’m talking more than just an exchange rate._

_Olsson: What is your call on a fair price?_

_Stuart: another 40 on distribution._

_Olsson: Fifteen._

_Stuart: Oh, come on now, sir. Surely you’re not that greedy._

_Olsson: I’m just looking out for my own business. But I can go somewhere else._

_Stuart: Twenty-five on the produce and thirty on distribution. And if you make me go any lower, I will cut off your wife’s fingers._

_Olsson: Excuse me._

_Stuart: She has a very beautiful collection of rings. It would be a shame if she could only wear them on her pinkies._

_Olsson: Are you threatening me?_

_Stuart: I am very certain that I am. And the longer we talk, the more I’ll take._

_Olsson: You’d have to find us first, wouldn’t you?_

_Stuart: You? Not really. I’m not a fan of meat fingers. But I would be happy to send my men into the Standard Club to retrieve her now. She has a spa appoint at three, right?_

Jensen rubs at his eyes and loosens his suddenly-tight grip around the papers.

“What is Graul to you?” Jared asks quietly as he puts down a file among the rest of the paperwork at the dining room table. There are evidence trails and transcripts from tapped lines among a wealth of pictures of Olsson and his team. 

Jensen carefully sets the call log back into the file he’d been perusing and just barely makes eye contact. 

“If she’s not your informant, then what? An old friend you’re just trying to protect?”

“Kinda,” he mumbles. 

“An old friend you’re trying to protect who just happens to be in Stuart’s organization?”

Now, Jared sounds and looks more insistent as he stares at Jensen. Finally, Jensen thinks, the time has come to get clean with Jared. “She’s undercover,” he says slowly, feeling the admission come to light. His heart immediately pumps faster and his palms are sweaty, but he thinks this is okay to finally admit. “I’m her contact from B.O.C., which is why I showed up that night at your precinct to pick her up.”

“When you let her slip out of my cell,” Jared says, but there’s something playful in the tiny lilt at the tail end of his words. 

“Well,” Jensen offers with a smile, “you weren’t that hard to get her past.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, I mean, you _walked away_ after unlocking the cell.” Jensen laughs, smile growing wider when Jared tries to appear mad, but is only blushing out of foolishness now. “What else could I do, but just walk out with her?”

“And without her shoes … that must’ve been a sight in the lobby.”

“Guys were eying her like she was a classic car, and I had to tell her to turn it down.”

Jared smiles and shifts towards Jensen “A spitfire like her? How’d she take it?”

Jensen chuckles at the memory. “She said a proud hen never backs down.”

“Well, I gotta give it to her. And you,” Jared tacks on, rubbing his hand over Jensen’s shoulder. “I ain’t no new kid on the block, but you guys fooled me.”

“It’s not like you weren’t on the trail,” Jensen murmurs as they inch closer to one another and Jared’s hand brushes up along the fine hairs at the back of Jensen’s neck. “Always asking me what the hell I was up to … it was pretty hard to keep you in the dark.”

“I’m glad you decided to stop,” Jared whispers against Jensen’s lips and then presses their mouths together. The kiss deepens immediately with tongues twisting over one another and Jensen all but falling out of his chair to get closer to Jared. 

They kiss for a long time, enough so that Jensen’s thighs begin to strain with the angle he’s leaning towards Jared, and they’re both running out of air. They pant heavily through a new round of kissing, breaking off for large gasps before Jared dives right back in and grips the back of Jensen’s head. 

“What would you say,” Jared pants, “If I said I wanted to fuck you right here on this table, right now.”

Jensen glances at the table and then back to Jared. “I’d say we should clean up your paperwork first.”

Jared’s laugh comes out in a hot puff against Jensen’s lips. “Smart man, gotta love it.” They both stand to clean up the paperwork, get it into files and accordion folders, all while Jensen is trying not to laugh hysterically at how obvious they are with the large bulges in their jeans. It’s especially comedic that they’re both so meticulous in filing it all away at this moment … and also when Jared takes the files and just dumps them to the ground before grabbing Jensen and turning him against the table.

Before Jensen can get his hands on the tabletop, Jared drags Jensen’s shirt up to his shoulders and licks one long stripe up the length of Jensen’s spine. Jared mouths back the way he came, lips taking time over each knob and valley of the center of Jensen’s back. At the same time, Jared’s digging his hips into Jensen’s ass with his hard dick pressing against the back seam of the jeans. 

Jensen moans and thunks his head against the hard wood while pushing back against Jared’s dick, even when there’s far too much fabric between them. He figures the tease is a great tell of things to come, and he’s willing to live through dreadful foreplay to get there. 

Jared runs his hands over Jensen’s back, pressing his fingers of Jensen’s shoulder blades like he’s trying to hold on, and fucks his hips forward hard enough that Jensen’s bare chest streaks across the tabletop with a harsh noise. 

“Fuck, Jared,” Jensen groans, “You better have some fucking lube nearby.”

“I’m on it,” he replies, moving away from Jensen. Then his fingers come back to tug the back of Jensen’s belt and Jared’s wet, skinny tongue slides along the newly-bared skin. He tries to bite at the skin, too, but it’s more of a ticklish scrape that makes Jensen jumps with a tiny shriek. Jared laughs, rubs over Jensen’s ass, fingernails digging into his jeans, and mouths at that spot again. “Just don’t go anywhere, tiger.”

Jensen clenches his eyes shut and widens his legs in anticipation of what’s to come. “Not planning on it.”

Want and impatience are growing within and Jensen starts at Jared’s warm touch over his lower back. He looks over his shoulder and is impressed to find Jared completely, buck-ass naked and at full attention. They share a smile as Jared’s hands slip around Jensen’s waist, undo his belt and jeans, and slowly pull his pants and underwear down just as Jensen yanks his shirt all the way off his shoulders. Then there’s the cold, wet prodding of Jared’s finger at Jensen’s hole, rubbing and pressing all around the rim while Jared leaves tiny, sucking kisses all along Jensen’s ass cheek.

Jensen doesn’t want to beg for it, but he’s certain Jared is taking far too long here, so he rocks his hips back and mumbles, “Go on now. I’m ready for it.”

More cold liquid drips over Jensen’s hole and Jared pushes his finger all the way in. Jensen keens with another quick punch of Jared’s finger out and in, and then smiles when he can feel heat hovering around him when Jared stands up and leans against Jensen’s side as he starts fingerfucking in earnest. His middle finger gets far inside and Jensen wants to feel more, starts insisting on it, yet Jared keeps his one finger doing all the work as it drills deeper and deeper until Jensen is panting and nearly drooling on the dining room table. 

Jared’s hand closes over Jensen’s shoulder to pull him back just as his finger pushes in far, and Jensen cries out in ecstasy. He drops his head to the table again, wanting more than just this right now. “Jared, c’mon man, let’s do this together, just … fuck …”

“Whatever you want,” Jared replies in a deep, gravelly breath, signaling how affected he already is by this scene. Soon enough, he’s pouring more lube over Jensen’s hole and the condom over his dick before pushing it in, going much slower than his finger had been. They take their time now with Jared’s bare chest pressed tightly to Jensen’s back, their bodies rocking against each other, and Jared’s hands running down the length of Jensen’s arms and finally to his hands. Their fingers intertwine and Jared presses them into the table for leverage as he fucks slow and deep into Jensen’s ass. 

Jensen pushes back on Jared’s hips, feels the meat of his ass press tight against the firm, muscular planes of Jared’s body, and does his best to egg Jared on, make the guy pant and moan and whimper out of sheer need and want. And Jared does just that, biting into Jensen’s shoulders, his sweat-soaked hair dragging along Jensen’s own heated skin, and releasing a mass of pleased obscenities. Finally, Jared ruts his hips up quickly a dozen or so times as Jensen fucks himself back on Jared’s dick, until Jared comes with a shout and collapses atop Jensen. 

Jared pants a string of, “Oh, fuck, fucking, goddamn, fuck,” while nuzzling Jensen’s skin. His left hand drags down along Jensen’s side until he can reach around and fist Jensen’s cock. It only takes a few minutes at this point, but the warm hand encloses so perfectly around him to make Jensen’s blood light afire. He fucks Jared’s hand while he can still rock back onto Jared’s dick in his ass. He yells and whines through his orgasm with Jared still covering him from shoulders down to thighs, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

They clean up the table, and the floor, not to mention themselves. As clothes are put back into place, Jared picks up Jensen’s cell from the ground. 

“Turner and Hooch, 911?” he asks oddly. 

“What?” Jensen asks, snatching the phone away to check his messages. “From when?” 

He sees it’s nearly fifteen minutes old … which may not be much by general standards, but when there’s a _911_ distress text, every second counts. 

“I gotta go,” Jensen says. He swipes his jacket off the back of the chair he’d been sitting in and hurries for the door. 

“Just like that?” Jared asks from the hallway.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Just like that.”

Jensen speeds out of Jared’s cookie-cutter neighborhood towards the city circle in hopes that whatever danger Danneel is in is back around Stuart’s auto shop. The large garage has been in business for a few decades now, serving as a staple to the formerly working-class neighborhood, and now also functions as a meet-up point for Stuart and his crew.

Manns and Whitfield had recently set up shop across the street with video surveillance, so it might be a good start. He calls Whitfield first to ask of Danneel’s whereabouts.

“We haven’t seen her around here for a few days,” the guy insists, doing nothing to help the nausea growing in Jensen’s stomach. “And her wire’s been silent for at least half an hour.”

“What about her cell? Can you track her GPS?”

“Nothing.”

“Where was she last on the tracker?”

“11th and Monroe, right by where--”

“She was meeting Olsson last time,” Jensen finishes. 

“And she wasn’t alone. She was with Stuart.”

Jensen stomach drops, asks if there’s any other info, and drops the call when they’ve run out of updates. He tries Brown next, even when he’s afraid to admit they lost her again. Weaving between cars, he yanks open the center console compartment, grabs his gun and clip, attaches it to the back waistband of his jeans, and prays he’s overreacting. Still, “Turner and Hooch sent _911_ ,” he says before the ADA can fully get out _hello_.

“At what time?” Brown asks, sounding tight.

“Twenty-three minutes ago.”

“That’s awfully precise.”

“Yeah, well I’m awfully fucking worried!” he yells. 

“What happened when it first came in?” Brown asks slowly, as if trying to put the pieces together. “Where were you?”

“I was … busy,” he replies. There’s no way he’ll give out the real details. 

“Busy doing what? I thought your job was to be her first responder?”

“I’m well aware of how fucking bad this is, okay?” Jensen cuts a quick corner and veers out into oncoming traffic, just barely managing to right his vehicle and continue on his way without any vehicular or pedestrian damage. “Just tell me what we can do now? The surveillance team hasn’t heard anything from her for over thirty minutes. She lost her wire and her phone. No GPS.”

“Again?” Brown asks then hums. “You think she got arrested again.”

Jensen laughs angrily. “No, I really don’t think she got arrested again. I think she’s in real trouble because she texted me the fucking bat signal and she was last tracked out in Buckingham. Now will you please help?”

“Alright, alright. I’ll call Morgan and get some people on this.”

Something clicks and Jensen envisions Jared standing right in front of him. “Alright, yeah, and I’ll call someone, too.”

Jared answers with a playful, “I thought you had work to do?”

Jensen dismisses it immediately as he takes a swift u-turn back to where he’d come. “Be outside in five minutes.”

He pauses and then dumbly asks, “For what?”

“And bring your gun and badge.”

“For _what?_ ”

Jensen smiles beyond the tension brewing within. “We’re gonna do a little hunting.”

They argue for most of the time they’re in the car. Jared wants to know everything, and dismisses much of what Jensen explains as a man on a suicide mission.

Jensen rolls his eyes. “If it were a suicide mission, I’d be going it alone. At least I called in back-up.”

“Bringing along a narcotics officer is not back-up,” Jared insists. “Have you called anyone else at B.O.C.?”

His fingers curl around the top of the steering wheel and tighten so roughly that his knuckles seem translucent when street lights rake over the car. “Just my surveillance team.”

“So, what? There’s you, me, and like three other guys?”

“Or two,” he mumbles while pushing his foot down on the gas pedal.

Jared huffs and pulls his cell out of the phone clip at his hip. “Real smart there, Ackles. Lotta good that’ll do.”

Immediately, Jensen smacks the phone out of Jared’s hands and into the foot well. “You’re not calling anyone!”

“And why’s that?!”

“Because I don’t trust anyone!” Jensen yells, and seconds later lights fill the passenger side windows and the car is t-boned by a high-capacity SUV. 

The car’s wheels skid as the momentum from the hit defies the forward motion Jensen had been steering the car. Steam spills out of the hood and the engine rattles against other broken parts. Jensen’s hearing is muffled, filled mostly with white noise and a high-pitched tone, but there’s an undercurrent of his heartbeat thumping wildly. 

Blood trickles down his forehead from where he’d smacked his head against the inside frame of the driver’s side window and tacky powder from the delayed air bag itches on his face and hands. 

“Jared,” he mumbles while wiping at his face. There’s no response so he looks to his right where the passenger air bag is also deployed. He struggles to shove his air bag out of the way, hands slow and mind groggy. He can finally reach the passenger air bag and push at it until he gets a good view of an empty seat and open door.

“Jared!” he screams—he thinks he does, yet his mouth is slower than his brain, which is even slower than his body. He falls onto pavement once he gets his door flung open, struggles up to his feet, and weaves for a few steps until he can see over the top of his car to that black SUV about twenty yards away with its headlamps blinding him. 

Jensen shields his eyes from the direct beams and slowly moves around the car to assess the scene. His vision doubles as he attempts to focus in on the shape of someone kneeling on the ground and another figure standing over them. 

“I didn’t have a choice!” a man yells. His voice barely cuts through the ringing still overpowering Jensen’s hearing, but the more he talks, the more Jensen is able to zone in on the situation. “You were gonna come after me … it was you or me, and I was always big on self-preservation. You know that.”

Jensen blinks as his vision grows more stable in the bright lights, but still shields his eyes as best as he can. His stomach plummets down near his toes when he recognizes the strong shoulders and long, lean upper frame of Jared barely staying up from the asphalt. 

“Jared!” Jensen shouts. “You okay?!” 

“Aces,” Jared groans back.

Blood trails from the passenger side of Jensen’s car over to where Jared is near the side of the road. Jensen can spot Jared’s jeans are shredded on the right side, hip down to his knee, and blood stains the denim. His face is all cut up, more traces of blood shining in the headlights aimed near them.

“It didn’t have to be like this!” the guy yells as he yanks back on Jared’s shirt. Now Jensen can see the gun aimed to the back of Jared’s head. When Jensen reaches back for his weapon, Jared’s head is dragged back and he moans against the movement. “Don’t you dare. I’ll shoot faster than you can draw.”

“Rosey,” Jensen sighs wearily. “You’re right. It didn’t have to be like this. So just put the gun down and we can talk about this. C’mon, let’s end all this.” He takes a step forward, and again Jared is yanked back with the gun forced into his neck. “Okay!” he yells, “we can talk from here.” 

Glancing around, Jensen ascertains that they’re well and screwed. The neighborhood tapered off a few blocks ago and there are only a handful of properties surrounding them, all abandoned with a new city development in the works. No one else saw them—there’s no one here to call 911 and bring help. 

He tries to ignore the heavy dread weighting him down because he needs to appease Rosenbaum and keep Jared alive, despite the labored breathing that can be heard all the way over to where Jensen stands. 

“Mike, please. Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Sure he does! He has everything to do with it!”

“What? Are you jealous or something?” Jensen laughs at the juxtaposition of such a ludicrous idea against their current situation. 

“No! Shut the fuck up!” 

As Jensen adjusts to the darkness and the pain subsides into something closer to numbness, he can more clearly see Rosenbaum’s mess of a suit and tie, collar unbuttoned and crooked, and his eyes are wildly looking all around them. “Alright, Mike, then just tell me what it is … I’m listening.”

Rosenbaum digs the gun into Jared’s neck again, eliciting a cry of a pain from Jared and a whimper caught in Jensen’s throat. “This little asshole was giving you everything on Olsson, and we couldn’t have that anymore.”

“Who’s we?”

“Oh, give me a break. You know who _we_ is.”

“You and Stuart,” Jensen says more than asks. 

“You don’t mess with the family, Ackles! Haven’t you learned that already watching your little undercover sweetheart?”

“What’re you talking about?” he deflects. He’s not about to give away Danneel’s position here, no way, no how. 

“I heard you going through the files,” Rosenbaum replies, “just before he fucked your little ass.”

Jensen winces, Jared, too, and he tries to stop the bile rising in his throat. Jared’s place was tapped and Rosenbaum—and whoever else—had heard everything in Jared’s house. Not just them being together, and not just them sharing Jared’s files. Rosenbaum heard Jensen admit to Danneel being in Stuart’s organization and that B.O.C. was doing its best to go after them.

“You tapped my house,” Jared grumbles. Then he grunts when Rosenbaum lifts up on his shirt collar.

“Of course we did. Right after Stuart visited you.”

There are no words to describe Jensen’s alarm over what’s been happening over the last few weeks, ever since Abel told them Mr. Flowers was a cop. A new cop on Stuart’s radar, one that Abel, along with Jensen and the task force, couldn’t identify.

Was it Jared … or Rosenbaum … or someone else entirely, Jensen has no clue and he has no capability to think through it right now. Still, the possibility sits heavy in his chest that Jared had anything to do with all this.

“So, yeah, I heard you.” Rosenbaum tilts his head and his face twists in perverse pleasure. “And I told them all about you. Your dirty little secret is out.”

Breathing comes in short bursts and Jensen goes dizzy with panic, understanding why Danneel went missing and who was behind it. He was already preparing to shoot Rosenbaum to keep Jared alive and now he wants to kill the asshole out of revenge. Another hundred worries swirl in his mind and he can hardly think straight except for all the obscenities, insults, and threats he’s ready to release on Rosenbaum. But he’s kept quiet when lights shine from Jensen’s right and there’s a car coming down the street. It’s a bulky sedan and as it grows closer, Jensen can see a man behind the wheel. They all block the brightness until the car slows to a stop next to the SUV and Pellegrino steps out of the car. Jensen’s blood boils with terror for what kind of trouble they’re in now with two from Stuart’s side against him and Jared, and only one weapon on their side: holstered behind his back and unattainable without either Jared or Jensen being fired on first.

“Rosey, what’re you doing?” Pellegrino asks while he just stands there and looks at them. 

“I’m taking care of business. Just like I promised Stuart I would. Just I like I told you I could do, but you wouldn’t listen!” Rosenbaum gets fired up the more he talks and waves the gun around, pointing it at the ground then at Pellegrino as he rants. “You said I couldn’t handle my own shit and here I am handling it, and you’re gonna watch me take care of these ass—”

A gun fires and Jensen runs forward, and Rosenbaum tumbles to the ground like a stack of bricks. Jensen skids to a stop with his eyes on Jared, who is staring right back. He seems fine, as fine as he could be after being plowed into by a large truck. They both turn towards Pellegrino, still by his car, now with a gun aimed right where Rosenbaum had been.

“That guy talks too much,” Pellegrino says flatly with a small scowl.

Jensen’s eyes widen in delirium, because there’s no way this is really how it has happened. Stuart’s second-in-command couldn’t have shown up and just taken Rosenbaum out, shooting him in front of two cops, and snidely commenting on it.

Jared gets one foot beneath him to rise and Pellegrino tsks. “Not so fast there, bud.”

With Pellegrino’s eyes and gun on Jared, Jensen figures he’s got nothing to do but act. He quickly reaches behind him, tugs out his gun, and shoots Pellegrino in the right kneecap. Pellegrino falters to the ground, but not before discharging a bullet in the air. The sound triggers Jensen's reflexes, and he goes for Pellegrino’s chest … one, two, three more times to put him down for good.

Pellegrino is laid out on the cement, yet Jensen refuses to lower his weapon, keeps it trained right on the body, and waits for any movement. With nerves of steel, Jensen pulls his cell out of his pocket with his free hand and calls 911 to report the scene, pressing that they need an ambulance for an injured officer. ASAP.

“Jensen,” Jared calls out.

“You okay?” Jensen replies without taking his eyes off of Pellegrino’s lifeless form.

“Yes. Are you?”

“No.” He drops his weapon when his muscles unlock and the adrenaline crashes. He could fall down right in place and only stays upright by firmly locking his knees. “She’s still missing.”

Even as Jared insists he’s okay, Jensen makes him lay down on the pavement to minimize any back or neck movements. “You were just smashed by a truck,” Jensen grumbles. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“Okay, mom,” Jared replies, but stops fighting against Jensen’s help.

Just a few minutes later, emergency personnel swoop onto the scene with colored lights circling on their carousels. An ambulance comes first with paramedics jumping out to assess Jared’s injuries. One female gets rather close to Jensen with her hands going to his head where blood has dried over his temple, but he nudges her away and insists they handled Jared. 

Patrol cars and crime scene investigators gather as well with vehicles surrounding the area and blocking off the once-quiet street. Jensen is distracted by every talking voice or rumbling car that comes up to the scene. He spins in place a dozen times, lost on what he should be doing now, still overcome with anxiety over Jared, Rosenbaum, and Pellegrino, in succession. 

“Ackles!” Lieutenant Omundson shouts as he exits his black sedan. 

Jensen takes a quick breath and steels himself to report to his superior. “Yes, sir.”

“You alright here?”

“Aces,” he replies, smiling slightly at the memory of Jared saying just the same despite the mess they’d been in. 

Omundson looks beyond Jensen. “Is Padalecki okay?”

“I hope so.”

“Have you given your statement yet?”

“No, sir.” Now his head spins with the need to recount everything that’s happened; he doesn’t exactly know where to start. “Just trying to manage the scene.”

“A lot of good that is,” Omundson mumbles as they both turn to watch Deputy Commissioner Morgan arrive. 

The man is fully outfitted in his uniform, bars and seams perfectly straight, and he removes his hat to address them. “Gentlemen, what’ve we got here.”

Jensen glances away and focuses on the ambulance still on the scene. Its back doors are wide open and the medics are lifting Jared and his stretcher inside. He had intended to ride with Jared, be by his side for whatever he needs, but with two superiors standing before him and wanting a summary of the incident, there’s no way he can leave the conversation.

“Son?” Morgan asks after he’s said something else that Jensen missed completely.

He turns back to the discussion with full attention “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“I asked, where is Harris?”

“I don’t. We were heading out to Buckingham, where she’d last been seen, and then …”

“And then this happened,” Omundson finishes for him. 

“Who was she last with?”

“Stuart,” the Lieutenant answers.. 

”Where is Stuart now?”.

Before anyone can answer, all three of their phones chirp in alarm and they each read the message from Whitfield. 

_Stuart returned to the auto shop. Not alone._

Jensen curses under his breath, checks the state of his car, which is totaled and under assessment by the crime scene techs, then marches over to a patrol car. “Keys!” he barks at the officer standing by.

“Excuse me?”

“Officer,” Jensen demands, “I said give me your keys.”

“Ackles!” Omundson yells. He and Morgan step between Jensen and the vehicle. 

“Son, you should rethink your process at this moment,” Morgan says firmly.

“They know she’s undercover!” Jensen yells. “Stuart’s got her, and they’re gonna hurt her.”

“We don’t know that it’s her,” Omundson offers.

Jensen looks at his boss in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” 

“And what if it’s not? And you go in there guns blazing?”

“Then I’ll take down Stuart before he can kill her!”

“Sergeant,” Morgan rumbles, “This is exactly the reason you were taken off the streets. Your lack of control and due process.”

“And why did you put me on B.O.C.?” Jensen challenges. He looks between his boss and the Deputy Commissioner, and then angrily smiles. “Because I knew the most. Because I understood Stuart best, and right now, I understand that he wants to burn an officer who’s infiltrated his organization.”

“There are procedures and acc—”

“You told me long ago that she was my responsibility,” Jensen interrupts. He stares down Morgan, taking a small step forward. “That I had to _go get my girl_ and that’s exactly what I’m ready to do.”

By now, Omundson has moved back and watches the standoff in distress—likely fighting from getting in the middle of the argument. Morgan finally sighs and steps back, sweeping his hat towards the car even while he grimaces through the effort.

“Go on ahead then, Ackles. But don’t say I didn’t warn you of the mistake.”

“It’d be a mistake to let her burn,” Jensen says grimly then jumps in the car to save the day.

Just like before, Jensen doesn’t wait for back-up. He kicks down the front door to Stuart’s auto shop and faintly hears quick footsteps coming from across the street, which he figures are Manns and Whitfield coming from their position to stop him. He prays they’re more than willing to help.

“Stuart!” he roars into the dark space. “Get your ass out here!”

There’s movement on the floor above and Jensen races to the stairs, taking steps two at a time, and busts into the first closed door on the right. The office is empty, yet Jensen keeps his gun raised and arms firm to aim around every corner as he searches the next two rooms before stopping outside the door around the corner with a sliver of light at floor. 

His fingers slip over the doorknob and before he turns it, Stuart’s voice drifts through the wood.

“Come on in, Sergeant.”

Jensen closes his eyes and takes a moment to build up the fire inside. He tries to steady his breathing all while his heart beats manically as he pushes the door open into the room. Danneel is there, and Jensen has only one second of relief until he realizes she’s slumped in a chair, head hanging to the side. Stuart sits behind a desk. A silver pistol rests on the top of it.

“You’ve come for your girl. How delightful!”

Jensen lifts his weapon to stare down the barrel, right to the center of Stuart’s forehead. “Is she alive?”

“More or less. Poor girl wouldn’t talk,” Stuart says nonchalantly. He picks up the gun and runs his fingers over the barrel while watching Jensen. “I was certain should would, but not even an eight ball could loosen her up.”

He spots track marks on her left forearm with a yellow band tied around her elbow. He worries for how long she’s been out, how many drugs Stuart pumped into her system, and how long she has before medical attention won’t help. There’s a small noise behind him and from the corner of his eye, he sees Manns and Whitfield drawing closer with weapons out. Slowly, he turns back to Stuart and attempts a fierce smile. “Rosenbaum is dead. Pellegrino, too.”

Stuart tsks and shakes his head. “That’s a shame. It’s so hard to find good staff these days.” He slaps the arms of his chair and rises, and then circles the desk to stand beside Danneel. Slowly, he combs his gun through her limp, messy hair. “Though, I’m sure you’ve realized that yourself.”

“Step away from her,” Jensen grits through clenched teeth. He moves further into the room and circles it as Stuart slips behind Danneel to her other side. He gets closer to the desk to shift Stuart away from the door so Manns and Whitfield can charge in when they’re ready. 

“Now, now, Sergeant,” Stuart says kindly with his gun resting against Danneel’s head. “There’s no reason for us to fight. Surely you know that I have an opening in my organization. I’m always happy to employ the City’s finest. Just ask your boyfriend.”

Rage fills Jensen’s senses all over again and he re-aims his gun at Stuart’s face. “Put the gun down!”

Stuart grins and gestures with his hands around as he talks, gun waving through the air. “Is that your weak spot? Here I thought it was your little girl here, but maybe I should’ve just gone with Jared.”

“I swear to God, I will shoot you dead.”

“Now that seems a bit duplicitous, doesn’t it?” Stuart mockingly frowns and aims his gun at Jensen. “Because I was planning to do that, myself.”

Without thinking further than facing the bastard he’s been tracking for months, years even, Jensen charges forward and fires. He’s stopped after he discharges two bullets, spinning in place with fire burning through his chest. His vision swims and he can barely hear any sounds beyond Manns and Whitfield rushing into the room before black overcomes him.

He knocks his head on the desk and crumples to the floor.

Jensen must be back in the crashed car. Muffled sounds surge beneath white noise, and it takes a valiant effort to pry his eyes open. His body is numb and impossible to move. He can’t lift his arm, or even wiggle a toe or finger. When he can manage to get his eyes open, it’s only for a fraction and everything is blurry. His eyelids immediately slip closed and darkness overcomes him.

Something damp and cold touches his cheek. The fabric feels a little rough against his tender skin and now he can feel dull pain all over his body. As the aches grow stronger, he parts his lips just an inch to release a withered breath.

“Shh, careful now,” is said as the wet cloth runs over his forehead. 

“Hurts,” Jensen mumbles.

“What hurts?”

He wants to smirk and say _everything_ , but pain flares over his cheek down his neck, and burrows deep in his chest. He swears his skin is on fire and when he attempts to shift away from the furnace of agony, he’s fully engulfed in pain. His voice finally finds itself as he cries out. 

“Hey! Can’t you listen?” 

It’s familiar and warm, soothing really. It also forces Jensen to finally open his eyes with grogginess. Jared’s face is highly blurry, but Jensen can see those worried hazel eyes all the same. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Jared smiles. “And so are you.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he grumbles.

“Well, you look like it.”

“I’m sure I look like shit.”

“You look alive,” Jared murmurs, “and that’s beautiful.” He blots a small washcloth over Jensen’s forehead, down his temple, and over each cheek. 

As Jensen’s vision comes into focus, he now realizes Jared’s face is covered in black-and-purple bruises and half-healed cuts. The car crash replays itself and Jensen’s stomach clenches, which starts a whole new round of pain and whimpering. Even when it doesn’t subside, Jensen bears it and frowns at Jared. “You look pretty terrible, too.”

“A lot of scrapes, but I’m in one piece.”

“Am I?” he asks while trying to look down at his body. Cheap white blankets cover him and a horrible mint green hospital gown is half open over his chest. A mess of white bandages are wrapped around his left shoulder with a brace keeping his arm close to his side. “Doesn’t hardly look like it.”

“You took a bullet in your collarbone.” Jensen winces, and Jared does as well. “Yeah, no kidding. Shattered beyond belief. You’re pumped full of morphine, but the doctor said it’ll be a rough few weeks.”

“Stuart?”

“Took one in the gut and one in the kneecap.”

“Did he live?”

“Yeah, but he’s cuffed to a hospital bed in County.” He smiles while settling on the hospital bed, careful to not disrupt Jensen. “Brown’s ensured there’s no chance for bail, no matter what kind of lawyer Stuart brings in. Manns and Whitfield wrapped up the arrest while you were sleeping on the job.”

“I was shot,” he insists pitifully. “Can’t hardly blame me.”

Jared shrugs a little with a lopsided smile. “I guess not.”

Pieces of that scene slot together and Jensen’s eyes water at the vision of Danneel drugged out and half-dead. “What about Danneel?”

“She’s up and around, like that proud hen she always was. Already discharged.”

“Lucky,” Jensen grumbles. “When do I get to do that?”

“When you’re ready,” Jared replies evasively.

“I’m ready now,” he asserts while sitting up, only to shout through the pain and fall back to the mattress. 

“Not so fast, champ!” Jared helps Jensen rest on the bed again and stands to hover over him. “You’re not getting up while I’m here, and certainly not while you have two officers outside your door. They’re keeping trouble out … and _in_.”

“Even with Stuart in custody?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Jensen frowns and thunks his head into the pillow, ignoring the new round of aches through his body. He sighs at the pathetic state of his body and wishes he could walk out of here to witness the consequences of Stuart’s arrest. 

Jared’s hand settles over Jensen’s and their fingers thread together. Jensen runs his thumb over the webbing of Jared’s hand and watches the movement, clearing his throat around the ball of nerves building at all the questions he wants to ask; he’s just not sure he wants all the answers. “They tapped your house.”

Jared sighs. “Yeah, they did.”

“Why did they tap your house?”

“Insurance,” he answers immediately, which forces Jensen to look at him. Jared’s eyes remain on their hands together on Jensen’s stomach, but he does go on to explain. “He talked to me. Rosenbaum. Tried to recruit me.”

“ _Tried_?” Jensen asks with hope far too obvious in his voice.

“Yeah.” Jared nods firmly. “Tried and failed, so I’m assuming they wanted to get something on tape to blackmail me into joining them. But I still wouldn’t do it.”

“They go after people who say no.”

“Yeah, they do,” he agrees calmly. A bit too calmly for Jensen’s liking. “They threaten the people you love. Luckily, you’re pretty badass and can hold your own.”

Jensen huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know if I’m flattered or insulted.”

“I don’t know if I care.” Jared sobers and squeezes around Jensen’s fingers. “You saved my life.”

“Pellegrino saved your life,” he corrects. “He shot Rosenbaum and then I shot him before anything else could go wrong.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got good aim.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

Jared chuckles then bites his lower lip. “Yeah, you have.”


	4. Epilogue

Inside One Police Plaza, uniformed police officers swarm the lobby, moving in packs to the great hall where hundreds of folding chairs are lined up before a low platform. A wooden podium with the city’s seal graces the front of it, and Jensen slowly walks up the middle aisle while staring right at the graceful ivy branches encircling three perfect stars. 

He stops just a few feet away from it and the image burns brightly in his mind with a wealth of honor filling him, nearly bursting out the seams. 

“Look at this handsome fella,” Danneel says with an elbow bump. 

Jensen glances over and smiles, loving the image of her suited up, fresh faced with her hair smoothly pulled back into a refined bun, after spending two years watching her over-paint her face and rat up her hair. “You clean up pretty nice,” he jokes.

“We all do.” She looks over her shoulder to Manns and Whitfield, also in perfect navy uniforms, settling into the front row of seating. “Jared passed along your hat. Said you left it in his car.”

As she tries to put it on his head, Jensen bats her hands away. “No, not yet.” He sweeps a hand over his hair to make sure few hairs are out of place. Carefully, he smooths his part to the left. “I’m having a spectacularly great hair day.”

“You’re such a priss now.” Danneel rolls her eyes and goes to sit in the front room beside Manns.

Jensen follows, stopping briefly in front of the seal. He runs his fingers over the middle star, white gloves especially stark against the gold shapes on the podium. A small, gentle smile creases his face and stays there as he joins his fellow police officers in the front row, as he catches Jared’s eye from a few rows away, and again when he watches Danneel, Jason, and Malik each receive their Gold Medal of Valor. 

The maroon breast bar stands out against the dark blue of their uniforms, with three gold stars perfectly aligned on the medal. As the Commissioner continues to describe the events of that dreaded night with James Patrick Stuart, Jensen relives the feel of his gun’s trigger against his finger.

The _thud_ of the first bullet piercing Stuart’s kneecap.

The _pfft_ of the hollow-tip slicing into Jensen’s shoulder.

The _pop_ of another bullet landing in Stuart’s chest. 

His hearing is muffled just like it was back then, vision swimming and knees going weak. 

“Sergeant Ackles answered the call of duty and rose above it.”

Jensen comes back to the present with Commissioner Jim Beaver’s voice booming through the sound system. 

“In a show of exemplary service,” Beaver continues, “he placed his will and honor for his fellow police officers before fear. His commendable acts of bravery assisted in the closure of one of this City’s longest and most complicated operations, and for that, he receives our most sincere congratulations.”

The crowd breaks into applause, slightly muffled from the dozens upon dozens of gloved hands. Jensen accepts the notice with a small nod towards the audience then steps up to Deputy Commissioner Morgan to receive his medal.

“On behalf of the Commissioner and myself,” Morgan says dutifully, “We present you, Sergeant Ackles, with the department’s highest honor, the Medal of Honor.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jensen replies, quiet yet proud. Morgan sets the green breast bar to Jensen’s uniform jacket then pushes the pin through the fabric. Jensen winces with it pricks through his undershirt, into skin, and prodding his especially tender, still-healing collar bone.

Morgan seems surprised— _seems_ —until a smug smile breaks out on his face.

Jensen scowls, but not for long because even if he’ll be forever in Morgan’s bad graces for defying the Deputy Commissioner’s orders, he now has a bright green bar proving his value to the Department.

Following a handful of photos with a variety of ranking officers in the Department, not to mention his team, Jensen leaves the stage and follows the crowds emptying into the hallways and front lobby. Danneel, Manns, and Whitfield circle him, but he’s waiting for someone else, who finds them within a minute.

Jared engulfs him in a hug, and Jensen happily falls into it, loving that Jared was here to witness the occasion. He’s not really loving the uniform, though, as it covers nearly every inch of Jared’s smooth body, but they’ll take care of that later.

“Oh, God, they’re doing the sexy staring thing again,” Danneel complains with a roll of her eyes.

“Alright, whatever, what’re we doing?” Jensen says to interrupts the groaning of his coworkers.

His friends, and compatriots in duty.

“I think drinks are in order for everyone wearing a bar,” Jared suggests.

“And he says it without a smidge of jealousy,” Whitfield laughs.

“I’m not jealous at all!”

“Sure you’re not,” Jason adds in.

“I think I won overall. I walked away with far less scars than these two,” Jared argues while pointing at Jensen and Danneel. 

“It is true.” Jensen nods. “I’d happily not suffer a broken collarbone and concussions than to get poked in the chest by Morgan.”

Danneel reaches over to rub Jensen’s medal. “But now you have this pretty bar to go with your pretty eyes.”

Jensen smiles despite his want to shake off how gratified he is to have been right about Stuart, put an end to the whole nightmare his organization had run this town through, and to save Danneel in the process.

They quickly decide on a liquid lunch at Buckmasters and head outside, bounding down the long stretch of steps from the great hall down to the sidewalk. 

Jensen and Jared walk side by side, shoulders brushing every few feet, and Jensen smiles into the bright sunshine despite a crisp wind putting a harsh chill in the air. 

“And to think, you didn’t want to come today,” Jared says with a nudge.

Jensen shrugs. “It’s just all the pomp and circumstance. And these uniforms,” he complains. “They’re so itchy.”

“But you look so good,” Jared murmurs.

He chuckles and admires the long lines of Jared’s uniform as well. “Yeah, not too bad yourself.”

“So all in all, a pretty good day. “

“It’s not so bad, I guess. I got a shiny new medal. And after years of hard work, I finally got my guy.”

“So did I,” Jared says with another bump of their shoulders.

“Oh my God,” Jensen groans. “That was horrible.”

“It wasn’t that bad!”

“It certainly could have been better …”

They continue with playful bickering until they reach Jared’s car in the parking garage and can head off to meet with friends in celebration. When Jared’s car pulls out onto the main stretch of road splitting the city in two, Jensen watches Jared’s profile and secretly smiles that they’re both sitting exactly where they are, after all that has happened. 

Months after Stuart’s arrest, he pleaded out for a lifetime in a maximum security prison with a fair amount of amenities that Brown wasn’t happy to give up, but seemed to be a small pittance for having the mobster finally off the streets. Danneel only took two weeks of PTO to recover from the drug overdose then spent the next two compiling hundreds of reports for her time spent undercover. Manns and Whitfield were gladhanded for their efforts in putting the cuffs around Stuart’s hands and retrieving medical help before either Danneel or Jensen could leave this world entirely.

Jared walked away with plenty of bruises marking up his body and a small fear of driving until he absolutely had to cart Jensen around following months of physical therapy to acclimate Jensen’s arm to movements. 

And Jensen returned to the office just a week after being discharged from the hospital. He wanted nothing more than to update himself on Stuart’s legal proceedings and track down the dirty cops that remained on duty. Omundson wasn’t defeating, exactly, but he was reticent to let Jensen back into the files soon into his recover. Morgan, on the other hand, was happy to show his displeasure at every turn, with the climax showing itself at the awards ceremony.

When Jensen looks back on the six months, he knows that there are a number of conquests to tally in his life … not just bringing down Stuart, but living to tell the story and serving his City the best that he could. 

So as Jared brings the car to a stop just two blocks later, Jensen’s happy to smile at the mess of a traffic jam ahead of them. They’re not exactly riding off into the sunset together, but he’ll take it.


End file.
